THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
ERNEST  CARROLL  MOORE 


THE  NEW  LIFE 


OF 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI 


TRANSLATED    BY 

CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON 


Pero  se  le  mie  rime  avran  difetto, 
Ch'  entreran  nella  loda  di  costei, 
Di  cio  si  biasmi  il  debole  intelletto, 
E  '1  parlar  nostro,  die  11011  ha  valore 
Di  ritrar  tutto  cio  che  dice  Amore. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTOX,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

ress,  (£ambri&fle 
1895 


Copyright,  1807,  1892,  and  1895, 
By  CHARLES   ELIOT  NORTON. 

All  rights  reserved. 


THIRD    EDITION. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotjped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


College 
Library 

TV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  NEW  LIFE         ...:....! 

ESSAYS. 

ON  THE  NEW  LIFE 93 

THE  CONVITO  AND  THE  VITA  NUOVA    ...  100 
ON  THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  VITA  NUOVA         .        .      129 

NOTES  .  .  137 


THE  NEW  LIFE. 


PROEM. 

IN  that  part  of  the  book  of  my  memory  before 
which  little  can  be  read  is  found  a  rubric  which 
says:  Inclpit  Vita  Nova  [The  New  Life  begins]. 
Under  which  rubric  I  find  the  words  written  which 
it  is  my  intention  to  copy  into  this  little  book,  — 
and  if  not  all  of  them,  at  least  their  meaning. 

II. 

Nine  times  now,  since  my  birth,  the  heaven  of 
light  had  turned  almost  to  the  same  point  in  its  own 
gyration,  when  the  glorious  Lady  of  my  mind,  who 
was  called  Beatrice  by  many  who  knew  not  whut 
to  call  her,  first  appeared  before  my  eyes.  She  had 
already  been  in  this  life  so  long  that  in  its  course 
the  starry  heaven  had  moved  toward  the  region  of 
the  East  one  of  the  twelve  parts  of  a  degree  ;  so 
that  at  about  the  beginning  of  her  ninth  year  she 
appeared  to  me,  and  I  near  the  end  of  my  ninth 


2  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

year  saw  her.  She  appeared  to  me  clothed  in  a 
most  noble  color,  a  modest  and  becoming  crimson, 
and  she  was  girt  and  adorned  in  such  wise  as  be- 
fitted her  very  youthful  age.  At  that  instant,  I 
say  truly  that  the  spirit  of  life, which  dwells  in  the 
most  secret  chamber  of  the  heart, began  to  tremble 
with  such  violence  that  it  appeared  fearfully  in 
the  least  pulses,  and,  trembling,  said  these  words : 
jffcce  deus  fortior  me,  qui  veniens  dominabitur 
mihi  [Behold  a  god  stronger  than  I,  who  coming 
shall  rule  over  me]. 

At  that  instant  the  spirit  of  the  soul,  which 
dwells  in  the  high  chamber  to  which  all  the  spirits 
of  the  senses  carry  their  perceptions,  began  to  mar- 
vel greatly,  and,  speaking  especially  to  the  spirit 
of  the  sight,  said  these  words:  Apparuit  jam  bea- 
titudo  vestra  [Now  has  appeared  your  bliss]. 

At  that  instant  the  natural  spirit,  which  dwells 
in  that  part  where  our  nourishment  is  supplied, 
began  to  weep,  and,  weeping,  said  these  words  : 
lieu  miser !  quid  frequenter  impcditus  era  deln- 
ceps  [Woe  is  me,  wretched !  because  often  from 
this  time  forth  shall  I  be  hindered]. 

I  say  that  from  that  time  forward  Love  lorded 
it  over  my  soul,  which  had  been  so  speedily  wed- 
ded to  him  :  and  he  began  to  exercise  over  me  such 
control  and  such  lordship,  through  the  power  which 
my  imagination  gave  to  him,  that  it  behoved  me 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  3 

to  do  completely  all  his  pleasure.  He  commanded 
me  ofttimes  that  I  should  seek  to  see  this  youthful 
angel ;  so  that  I  in  my  boyhood  often  went  seek- 
ing her,  and  saw  her  of  such  noble  and  praise- 
worthy deportment,  that  truly  of  her  might  be  said 
that  word  of  the  poet  Homer,  "  She  seems  not 
the  daughter  of  mortal  man,  but  of  God."  And 
though  her  image,  which  stayed  constantly  with 
me,  gave  assurance  to  Love  to  hold  lordship  over 
me,  yet  it  was  of  such  noble  virtue  that  it  never 
siiffered  Love  to  rule  me  without  the  faithful 
counsel  of  the  reason  in  those  matters  in  which  it 
were  useful  to  hear  such  counsel.  And  since  to 
dwell  upon  the  passions  and  actions  of  such  early 
youth  seems  like  telling  an  idle  tale,  I  will  leave 
them,  and,  passing  over  many  things  which  might 
be  drawn  from  the  original  where  these  lie  hid- 
den, I  will  come  to  those  words  which  are  written 
in  my  memory  under  larger  paragraphs. 

III. 

When  so  many  days  had  passed  that  nine  years 
were  exactly  complete  since  the  above-described 
apparition  of  this  most  gentle  lady,  on  the  last 
of  these  days  it  happened  that  this  admirable  lady 
appeared  to  me,  clothed  in  purest  white,  between 
two  gentle  ladies  who  were  of  greater  age  ;  and, 


4  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

passing  along  a  street,  turned  her  eyes  toward  that 
place  where  I  stood  very  timidly ;  and  by  her  in- 
effable courtesy,  which  is  to-day  rewarded  in  the 
eternal  world,  saluted  me  with  such  virtue  that  it 
seemed  to  me  then  that  I  saw  all  the  bounds  of 
bliss.  The  hour  when  her  most  sweet  salutation 
reached  me  was  precisely  the  ninth  of  that  day  ; 
and  since  it  was  the  first  time  that  her  words  came 
to  my  ears,  I  took  in  such  sweetness,  that,  as  it 
were  intoxicated,  I  turned  away  from  the  folk  ; 
and,  betaking  myself  to  the  solitude  of  my  own 
chamber,  I  sat  myself  down  to  think  of  this  most 
courteous  lady. 

And  thinking  of  her,  a  sweet  slumber  overcame 
me,  in  which  a  marvellous  vision  appeared  to  me ; 
for  methought  I  saw  in  my  chamber  a  cloud  of  the 
color  of  fire,  within  which  I  discerned  a  shape  of 
a  Lord  of  aspect  fearful  to  whoso  might  look  upon 
him ;  and  he  seemed  to  me  so  joyful  within  himself 
that  a  marvellous  thing  it  was  ;  and  in  his  words 
he  said  many  things  which  I  understood  not,  save 
a  few,  among  which  I  understood  these :  Efjo 
Dominus  tint*  [I  am  thy  Lord].  In  his  arms 
meseemed  to  see  a  person  sleeping,  naked,  save  that 
she  seemed  to  me  to  be  wrapped  lightly  in  a  crim- 
son cloth  ;  whom  I,  regarding  very  intently,  recog- 
nized as  the  lady  of  the  salutation,  who  had  the 
day  before  deigned  to  salute  me.  And  in  one  of 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  5 

his  hands  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  held  a  thing 
which  was  all  on  fire  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
said  to  me  these  words  :  Vide  cor  tuum  [Behold 
thy  heart].  And  when  he  had  remained  awhile,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  he  awoke  her  that  slept ;  and  he 
so  far  prevailed  upon  her  with  his  craft  as  to  make 
her  eat  that  thing  which  was  burning  in  his  hand  ; 
and  she  ate  it  timidly.  After  this,  it  was  but  a 
short  while  before  his  joy  turned  into  most  bitter 
lament ;  and  as  he  wept  he  gathered  up  this  lady 
in  his  arms,  and  with  her  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
went  away  toward  heaven.  Whereat  I  felt  such 
great  anguish,  that  my  weak  slumber  could  not 
endure  it,  but  was  broken,  and  I  awoke.  And 
straightway  I  began  to  reflect,  and  found  that  the 
hour  in  which  this  vision  had  appeared  to  me  had 
been  the  fourth  of  the  night ;  so  that,  it  plainly 
appears,  it  was  the  first  hour  of  the  nine  last  hours 
of  the  night. 

And  thinking  on  what  had  appeared  to  me,  I 
resolved  to  make  it  known  to  many  who  were  fa- 
mous poets  at  that  time  ;  and  since  I  had  already 
seen  in  myself  the  art  of  discoursing  in  rhyme,  I 
resolved  to  make  a  sonnet  in  which  I  would  salute 
all  the  liegemen  of  Love,  and,  praying  them  to 
give  an  interpretation  of  my  vision,  would  write  to 
them  that  which  I  had  seen  in  my  slumber.  And 
I  beiran  then  this  sonnet :  — 


6  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

To  every  captive  soul  and  gentle  heart 

Unto  whose  sight  may  come  the  present  word, 
That  they  thereof  to  me  their  thoughts  impart, 
Be  greeting  in  Love's  name,  who  is  their  Lord. 

Now  of  those  hours  wellnigh  one  third  had  gone 
What  time  doth  every  star  appear  most  bright, 
When  on  a  sudden  Love  before  me  shone, 
Remembrance  of  whose  nature  gives  me  fright. 

Joyful  to  me  seemed  Love,  and  he  was  keeping 
My  heart  within  his  hands,  while  on  his  arm 
He  held  my  lady,  covered  o'er,  and  sleeping. 

Then  waking  her,  he  with  this  flaming  heart 
Did  humbly  feed  her  fearful  of  some  harm. 
Thereon  I  saw  him  thence  in  tears  depart. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  two  parts.  In  the 
first  part  I  offer  greeting,  and  ask  for  a  reply  ; 
In  the  second  I  signify  to  what  the  reply  is  to  be 
made.  The  second  part  begins  here  :  "  Now  of." 

To  this  sonnet  reply  was  made  by  many,  and  of 
diverse  opinions.  Among  those  who  replied  to  it 
was  he  whom  I  call  first  of  my  friends,  and  he 
then  wrote  a  sonnet  which  begins,  "  All  worth,  in 
my  opinion,  thou  hast  seen."  And  this  was,  as  it 
were,  the  beginning  of  the  friendship  between  him 
and  me,  when  he  knew  that  I  was  he  who  had 
sent  it  to  him. 

The  true  meaning  of  this  dream  was  not  then 
seen  by  any  one,  but  now  it  is  plain  to  the  simplest. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  1 

IV. 

After  this  vision  my  natural  spirit  began  to  be 
hindered  in  its  operation,  for  my  soul  was  wholly 
given  over  to  the  thought  of  this  most  gentle  lady  ; 
whereby  in  brief  time  I  fell  into  so  frail  and  feeble 
a  condition,  that  my  appearance  was  grievous  to 
many  of  my  friends ;  and  many  full  of  envy 
eagerly  sought  to  know  from  me  that  which  above 
all  I  wished  to  conceal  from  others.  And  I,  per- 
ceiving their  evil  questioning,  through  the  will  of 
Love,  who  commanded  me  according  to  the  counsel 
of  the  reason,  replied  to  them,  that  it  was  Love  who 
had  brought  me  to  this  pass.  I  spoke  of  Love, 
because  I  bore  on  my  face  so  many  of  his  signs 
that  this  could  not  be  concealed.  And  when  they 
asked  me :  "  For  whom  has  Love  thus  wasted 
thee  ?  "  I,  smiling,  looked  at  them  and  said  nothing. 

V. 

One  day  it  happened  that  this  most  gentle  lady 
was  sitting  apart,  where  words  concerning  the 
Queen  of  Glory  were  to  be  heard  ;  and  I  was  in  a 
place  from  which  I  saw  my  bliss.  And  in  the 
direct  line  between  her  and  me  sat  a  gentle  lady  of 
very  pleasing  aspect,  who  often  looked  at  me,  won- 
dering at  my  gaze,  which  seemed  as  if  it  ended 


8  TUE  NEW  LIFE. 

upon  her ;  so  that  many  observed  her  looking. 
And  such  note  was  taken  of  it,  that,  as  I  departed 
from  this  place,  I  heard  say  near  me :  "  Behold 
how  that  lady  wastes  the  life  of  this  man ; "  and 
naming  her,  I  understood  that  they  spoke  of  her 
who  had  been  in  the  path  of  the  straight  line 
which,  parting  from  the  most  gentle  Beatrice,  had 
ended  in  my  eyes.  Then  I  took  great  comfort, 
being  sure  that  my  secret  had  not  been  communi- 
cated to  others  on  that  day  through  my  eyes  ;  and 
at  once  I  thought  to  make  of  this  gentle  lady 
a  screen  of  the  truth ;  and  in  a  short  time  I 
made  such  show  of  it  that  many  persons  who  held 
discourse  about  me  believed  that  they  knew  my 
secret. 

With  this  lady  I  dissembled  for  some  months 
and  years  ;  and  in  order  to  establish  in  others  a 
firmer  credence,  I  wrote  for  her  certain  trifles  in 
rhyme,  which  it  is  not  my  intention  to  transcribe 
here,  save  in  so  far  as  they  might  serve  to  treat 
of  that  most  gentle  Beatrice  ;  and  therefore  I  will 
leave  them  all,  save  that  I  will  write  something 
of  them  which  seems  to  be  praise  of  her. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  9 

VI. 

I  say  that,  during  the  time  while  this  lady  was 
the  screen  of  so  great  a  love  as  possessed  me,  the 
will  came  to  me  to  record  the  name  of  that  most 
gentle  one,  and  to  accompany  it  with  many  names 
of  ladies,  and  especially  with  the  name  of  this 
gentle  lady ;  and  I  took  the  names  of  sixty  of  the 
most  beautiful  ladies  of  the  city  where  my  lady 
had  been  placed  by  the  Most  High  Lord,  and  I 
composed  an  epistle  in  the  form  of  a  serventese, 
which  I  will  not  transcribe  ;  and  of  which  I  would 
not  have  made  mention,  but  for  the  sake  of  telling 
this  which  fell  out  marvellously  in  its  composition, 
namely,  that  in  no  other  place  did  the  name  of  my 
lady  endure  to  stand,  but  as  the  ninth  in  number 
among  the  names  of  these  ladies. 

VII. 

The  lady  with  whom  I  had  so  long  concealed 
my  will  was  obliged  to  depart  from  the  above- 
mentioned  city,  and  go  to  a  very  distant  place  ; 
whereat  I,  wellnigh  dismayed  by  reason  of  the  fail- 
defence  which  had  failed  me,  did  more  discomfort 
me  than  I  myself  would  beforehand  have  believed. 
And,  thinking  that,  if  I  did  not  speak  somewhat 
grievingly  of  her  departure,  people  would  sooner 


10  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

become  acquainted  with  my  secret,  I  resolved  to 
make  some  lament  for  it  in  a  sonnet,  which  I  will 
transcribe  because  my  lady  was  the  immediate 
occasion  of  certain  words  which  are  in  the  sonnet, 
as  is  evident  to  whoever  understands  it ;  and  then 
I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

O  ye  who  turn  your  steps  along  Love's  way, 

Consider,  and  then  say, 

If  there  be  any  grief  than  mine  more  great  : 

That  ye  to  hear  me  deign,  I  only  pray  ; 

Then  fancy,  as  ye  may, 

If  I  am  every  torment's  inn  and  gate. 
'T  was  not  my  little  goodness  to  repay, 

But  bounty  to  display, 

Love  gave  me  such  a  sweet  and  pleasant  fate, 

That  many  times  I  heard  behind  me  say, 

"  Ah,  through  what  merit,  pray, 

Hath  this  man's  heart  become  so  light  of  late  ?  " 
But  now  is  wholly  lost  my  hardihead, 

Which  came  from  out  a  treasure  of  Love's  own, 

And  I  stay  poor  alone, 

So  that  of  speech  there  cometh  to  me  dread. 
Thus  wishing  now  to  do  like  unto  one 

Who,  out  of  shame,  concealeth  his  disgrace, 

I  wear  a  joyful  face, 

While  in  my  heart  I  waste  away  and  groan. 

TJiis  sonnet  has  ttvo  principal  parts  ;  for  in 
the  first  I  intend  to  cry  to  the  liegemen  of  Love 
with  those  words  of  Jeremy  the  prophet :  O  vos 
onmes  qui  transitis  per  viam,  attendite  et  videte, 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  11 

si  est  dolor  sicut  dolor  meus  [All  ye  that  pass  by, 
behold,  and  see  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like  unto 
my  sorrow]  :  and  to  pray  them  to  deign  to  listen 
to  me.  In  the  second  I  relate  where  Love  had  set 
me,  with  other  intent  than  that  which  the  last  parts 
of  the  sonnet  indicate ;  and  I  tell  that  which  I 
have  lost.  The  second  part  begins  here :  "  'T  was 
not  my." 

VIII. 

After  the  departure  of  this  gentle  lady  it 
pleased  the  Lord  of  the  Angels  to  call  unto  His 
glory  a  lady  young  and  of  exceeding  gentle  aspect, 
who  had  been  very  lovely  in  the  above-mentioned 
city  ;  whose  body  I  saw  lying  without  its  soul,  in 
midst  of  many  ladies  who  were  weeping  very  piti- 
fully. Then,  remembering  that  formerly  I  had 
seen  her  in  company  with  that  most  gentle  one, 
I  could  not  restrain  some  tears  ;  nay,  weeping,  I 
resolved  to  say  some  words  about  her  death,  in 
guerdon  for  that  I  had  seen  her  sometimes  with  my 
lady.  And  thereon  I  touched  somewhat  in  the 
last  part  of  the  words  that  I  said  of  her,  as  plainly 
appears  to  him  who  understands  them.  And  I 
devised  then  these  two  sonnets  ;  the  first  of  which 
begins,  Lovers,  lament ;  the  second,  Discourteous 
death  :  — 


12  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

Lovers,  lament,  since  Love  himself  now  cries, 
Hearing  what  cause  't  is  maketh  him  to  weep. 
Love  seeth  ladies  mourn  in  sorrow  deep, 
Showing  their  bitter  grieving  through  their  eyes  ; 

Because  discourteous  Death,  on  gentle  heart 
Working  his  cruel,  unrelenting  ways, 
Hath  all  despoiled  which  in  the  world  wins  praise 
For  gentle  dame,  excepting  honor's  part. 

Hear  ye  what  honor  Love  to  her  did  pay  ; 
For  him  in  real  form  I  saw  lament 
Above  the  lovely  image  of  the  dead  ; 

And  often  toward  the  heaven  he  raised  his  head, 
Whereto  the  gentle  soul  had  made  ascent 
Which  had  been  mistress  of  a  shape  so  gay. 

Tins  first  sonnet  is  divided  into  three  parts.  In 
the  first,  I  call  and  solicit  the  liegemen  of  Love 
to  weep ;  and  I  say  that  their  Lord  lueeps,  and 
that,  hearing  the  cause  why  he  weeps,  they  should, 
lie  the  more  ready  to  listen  to  me.  In  the  second, 
I  relate  the  cause.  In  the  third,  I  speak  of  cer- 
tain honor  that  Love  paid  to  this  lady.  The 
second  part  begins  here:  "Love  seeth:"  the 
third,  here  :  u  Hear  ye." 

Discourteous  Death,  of  clemency  the  foe, 
Mother  from  old  of  woe, 
Thou  judgment  irresistible,  severe, 
Since  sorrow  to  this  heart  thou  dost  not  spare, 
Therefore  in  grief  I  go, 
And  blaming  thee  my  verv  tongue  outwear. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  13 

And  since  I  wish  of  grace  to  strip  thee  bare, 

Behoves  me  to  declare 

The  wrong  of  wrongs  in  this  thy  guilty  blow  ; 

Not  that  the  folk  do  not  already  know, 

But  to  make  each  thy  foe, 

Who  henceforth  shall  be  nurtured  with  Love's  care, 
From  out  the  world  thou  courtesy  hast  ta'en, 

And  virtue,  which  in  woman  is  to  praise  ; 

And  in  youth's  gayest  days 

The  charm  of  love  thou  hast  untimely  slain. 
Who  is  this  lady  I  will  not  declare, 

Save  as  her  qualities  do  make  her  known  ; 

Who  merits  heaven,  alone 

May  have  the  hope  her  company  to  share. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  four  parts.  In  the 
first  I  call  Death  by  certain  names  proper  to  her  ; 
in  the  second,  speaking  to  her,  I  tell  the  reason 
why  I  am  moved  to  reproach  her  ;  in  the  third,  I 
revile  her;  in  the  fourth,  I  turn  to  speak  to  an. 
indefinite  person,  although  definite  as  regards  my 
meaning.  The  second  part  begins  here  :  "  Since 
sorrow;"  the  third,  here  :  "  And  since  I  wish;" 
the  fourth,  with  "  Who  merits." 


IX. 

Some  clays  after  the  death  of  this  lady,  a  thing 
happened  wherefore  it  behoved  me  to  leave  the 
above-mentioned  city,  and  to  go  toward  those  parts 


14  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

where  that  gentle  lady  was  who  had  been  my  de- 
fence, though  the  end  of  my  journey  was  not  dis- 
tant so  far  as  she  was.  And  notwithstanding  I 
was  outwardly  in  company  with  many,  the  journey 
displeased  me,  so  that  hardly  could  sighs  relieve 
the  anguish  which  the  heart  felt,  because  I  was 
going  away  from  my  bliss.  And  then  that  most 
sweet  Lord,  who  was  lording  it  over  me  through 
virtue  of  the  most  gentle  lady,  appeared  in  my 
imagination  like  a  pilgrim  lightly  clad  and  in 
mean  raiment.  He  seemed  disheartened,  and  was 
looking  upon  the  ground,  save  that  sometimes  it 
seemed  to  me  his  eyes  were  turned  upon  a  beauti- 
ful, swift  and  very  clear  stream,  which  was  flowing 
along  by  the  road  upon  which  I  was. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Love  called  me,  and  said 
to  me  these  words  :  "  I  come  from  that  lady  who 
has  been  so  long  thy  defence,  and  I  know  that  she 
will  not  come  back ;  and  therefore  that  heart  which 
I  made  thee  keep  with  her  I  have  it  with  me,  and 
I  carry  it  to  a  lady  who  will  be  thy  defence,  as  this 
one  was ;  "  and  he  called  her  by  name,  so  that  I 
knew  her  well.  "But,  however,  of  these  words 
which  I  have  spoken  unto  thee,  if  thou  should  st 
tell  any  of  them,  tell  them  in  such  wise  that  the 
feigned  love  which  thou  hast  shown  for  this  lady, 
and  which  it  will  behove  thee  to  show  for  another, 
shall  not  be  revealed  through  them."  And  when 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  15 

he  had  thus  spoken,  all  this  my  imagination  disap- 
peared of  a  sudden,  through  the  exceeding  great 
part  of  himself  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  Love  be- 
stowed on  me.  And,  as  if  changed  in  my  aspect, 
I  rode  that  day  very  pensive  and  accompanied  by 
many  sighs.  The  next  day  I  began  this  son- 
net: — 

As  I  the  other  day  rode  far  from  glad 
Along  a  way  it  pleased  me  not  to  take, 
I  came  on  Love,  who  did  his  journey  make, 
In  the  light  garment  of  a  pilgrim  clad. 

His  countenance,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  sad, 
As  if  he  grieved  for  his  lost  lordship's  sake  ; 
Pensive  he  came,  and  forth  his  sighs  did  break  ; 
Not  to  see  folk,  his  head  bowed  down  he  had. 

When  me  he  saw,  by  name  he  called  to  me, 
And  said,  "  I  come  from  that  far  distant  part 
Where  through  my  will  thy  heart  did  dwell  of  late. 

I  bring  it  now  on  new  delight  to  wait." 
Thereon  I  took  of  him  so  great  a  part 
That  quick  he  vanished  ;  how,  I  did  not  see. 

This  sonnet  has  three  parts.  In  the  first  part 
I  tell  how  I  found  Love,  and  what  he  seemed  to 
me;  in  the  second,  I  tell  that  which  he  said  to 
me,  thonc/h  not  completely,  through  the  fear  that 
I  had  of  disclosing  my  secret  ;  in  the  third,  I  tell 
how  he  disappeared.  TJie  second  begins  here: 
"When  me  he  saw;"  the  third,  here:  "Thereon 
I  took." 


16  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

X. 

After  my  return,  I  set  myself  to  seek  out  that 
lady  whom  my  Lord  had  named  to  me  on  the  road 
of  sighs.  And  to  the  end  that  my  speech  may  be 
more  brief,  I  say  that  in  short  time  I  made 
her  my  defence  to  such  degree,  that  very  many 
people  spoke  of  it  beyond  the  terms  of  courtesy  ; 
wherefore  many  times  it  weighed  heavily  upon  me. 
And  on  this  account,  namely,  because  of  this  inju- 
rious talk,  which  seemed  to  impute  vice  to  me,  that 
most  gentle  lady,  who  was  the  destroyer  of  all  the 
vices  and  the  queen  of  the  virtues,  passing  by  a 
certain  place,  denied  me  her  most  sweet  salute, 
in  which  lay  all  my  bliss.  And  departing  a  little 
from  the  present  subject.  I  will  declare  that  which 
her  salutation  with  its  virtue  wrought  in  me. 


XI. 

I  say  that,  whenever  she  appeared  in  any  place, 
in  the  hope  of  her  marvellous  salutation  there  no 
longer  remained  to  me  an  enemy :  nay,  a  flame  of 
charity  possessed  me,  which  made  me  pardon 
every  one  who  had  done  me  wrong ;  and  had  any 
one  at  that  time  questioned  me  of  anything,  my 
only  answer  would  have  been  "Love,''  and  my 
face  would  have  been  clothed  with  humility.  And 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  17 

when  she  was  about  to  salute  me,  a  spirit  of  Love, 
destroying  all  the  other  spirits  of  the  senses,  urged 
forth  the  feeble  spirits  of  the  sight,  and  said  to 
them,  "  Go  and  do  honor  to  your  lady,"  and  he 
remained  in  their  place.  And  whoever  had  wished 
to  know  Love  might  have  done  so  by  looking  at 
the  trembling  of  my  eyes.  And  when  this  most 
gentle  lady  saluted  me,  Love  was  no  such  mediator 
that  he  had  power  to  shade  for  me  the  insupport- 
able bliss,  but  he,  as  if  through  excess  of  sweetness, 
became  such,  that  my  body,  which  was  wholly  under 
his  rule,  oftentimes  moved  like  a  heavy,  inanimate 
thing.  Hereby  it  plainly  appears  that  in  her  salu- 
tation abode  my  bliss,  which  oftentimes  surpassed 
and  overflowed  my  capacity. 

XII. 

Now  returning  to  my  subject,  I  say  that,  after 
my  bliss  was  denied  to  me,  such  grief  came  to  me 
that,  withdrawing  from  folk,  I  went  into  a  solitary 
place  to  bathe  the  earth  with  most  bitter  tears. 
And  when  this  weeping  was  a  little  assuaged,  I 
betook  myself  to  my  chamber,  where  I  could 
lament  without  being  heard.  And  here,  calling 
upon  the  lady  of  courtesy  for  pity,  and  saying, 
"  Love,  help  thy  liegeman !  "  I  fell  asleep,  like  a 
little  beaten  child,  in  tears. 


18  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

It  happened,  about  the  middle  of  my  sleep,  that 
I  seemed  to  see  in  my  chamber  a  youth  sitting  at 
my  side,  clothed  in  whitest  raiment,  and  very 
thoughtful  in  his  aspect.  lie  was  looking  upon 
me  where  I  lay ;  and  when  he  had  looked  upon  me 
for  some  time,  it  seemed  to  me  that,  sighing,  he 
called  me  and  said  to  me  these  words :  Fill  mi, 
tcmpus  est  ut  prcetermittantur  simulata  nostra 
[My  son,  it  is  time  that  our  feigiiings  be  given  up]. 
Then  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  recognized  him,  since 
he  called  me  even  as  he  had  many  times  before 
called  me  in  my  slumbers. 

And,  looking  at  him,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
wept  piteously,  and  it  seemed  that  he  waited  for 
some  word  from  me.  Wherefore,  taking  heart,  I 
began  to  speak  thus  with  him :  "  Lord  of  noble- 
ness, why  dost  thou  weep  ?  "  And  he  said  to  me 
these  words:  Ego  tanquam  centrum  circuit,  cul 
simil'i  modo  se  habent  circumferential  pftrtes ;  tu 
autcm  non  sic  [I  am  as  the  centre  of  a  circle  to 
which  the  parts  of  the  circumference  bear  an  equal 
relation  ;  but  thou  art  not  so] .  Then,  thinking  on 
his  words,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had  spoken  to 
me  very  obscurely,  so  that  I  forced  myself  to  speak, 
and  said  to  him  these  words  :  "  What  is  this,  Lord, 
which  thou  sayest  to  me  with  such  obscurity  ? " 
And  he  said  to  me  in  the  common  tongue  :  u  Ask 
no  more  than  mav  be  useful  to  thee." 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  19 

And  therefore  I  began  to  discourse  with  him  of 
the  salutation  which  had  been  denied  me,  and  I 
asked  of  him  the  reason ;  whereupon  in  this  wise 
he  replied  to  me  :  "  This  our  Beatrice  heard  from 
certain  persons  who  talked  of  thee,  that  the  lady 
whom  I  named  to  thee  on  the  road  of  sighs  was 
receiving  from  thee  some  harm.  And  therefore 
this  most  gentle  lady,  who  is  adverse  to  every 
harm,  did  not  deign  to  salute  thy  person,  fearing 
lest  it  should  be  harmful.  Wherefore,  to  the  end 
that  the  truth  of  thy  long-kept  secret  may  be  some- 
what known  to  her,  I  will  that  thou  say  certain 
words  in  rhyme,  in  which  thou  shalt  set  forth  the 
power  that  I  hold  over  thee  through  her,  and  how 
thou  wert  straightway  hers  even  from  thy  boy- 
hood ;  and  for  this,  call  as  a  witness  him  who 
knows  it,  and  also  do  thou  pray  him  that  he  should 
tell  it  to  her.  And  I,  who  am  he,  willingly  will 
speak  to  her  of  it ;  and  through  this  she  shall 
understand  thy  will,  and,  understanding  it,  shall 
interpret  aright  the  words  of  the  deceived.  Make, 
as  it  were,  a  mediator  of  these  words,  so  that  thou 
speak  not  to  her  directly,  for  this  is  not  befitting. 
And  without  me  send  them  nowhere  where  they 
might  be  heard  by  her ;  but  take  care  to  adorn 

O  v 

them    with    sweet    harmony,    wherein    I    shall   be 
whenever  there  shall  be  need." 

And  having  said  these  words  he   disappeared, 


20  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

and  my  sleep  was  broken.  Then  I,  remembering 
myself,  found  that  this  vision  had  appeared  to  me 
in  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day ;  and  before  I  went 
out  from  that  chamber  I  resolved  to  make  a  ballad 
in  which  I  would  execute  that  which  my  Lord  had 
laid  upon  me,  and  I  made  this  ballad :  — 


Ballad,  I  send  thee  forth  upon  Love's  trace, 
For  thou  must  him  before  my  Lady  bring, 
So  that  of  my  excuse,  which  thou  dost  sing, 
My  Lord  may  then  with  her  speak  face  to  face. 

Such  courteous  aspect,  Ballad,  thou  dost  show, 
That  all  alone,  indeed, 
Thou  oughtest  not  in  any  place  to  fear  ; 
But  if  securely  thou  dost  wish  to  go, 
First  to  find  Love  is  need, 
For  ill  it  were  without  Him  to  appear  ; 
Seeing  that  she  who  ought  thy  words  to  hear, 
If  she  be  angry,  as  I  think,  with  me, 
And  thou  with  Him  companioned  should  not  be, 
Might  lightly  make  thee  fall  into  disgrace. 

With  dulcet  sound,  when  with  Him  thou  mayst  be, 
Begin  with  words  like  these, 
First  begging  her  that  she  would  pity  take  :  — 
"  Lady,  he  who  to  you  now  sendeth  me 
Wills,  when  to  you  it  please, 
That  his  excuse  you  deign  to  hear  me  make. 
Love  is  that  one  who,  for  thy  beauty's  sake, 
Makes  him,  as  He  doth  will,  his  looks  to  change  ; 
Then  why  He  made  his  eyes  on  others  range, 
Think  you,  since  in  his  heart  no  change  hath  place." 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  21 

Tell  her  :  "  O  Lady,  this  his  heart  is  stayed 
With  faith  so  firmly  just, 
Save  to  serve  you,  it  hath  no  other  care. 
Early  't  was  yours,  and  never  hath  it  strayed." 
But  if  she  thee  distrust, 

Say,  "  Ask  of  Love,  who  will  the  truth  declare.** 
And  at  the  end,  beg  her,  with  humble  prayer, 
That  if  it  trouble  her  to  pardon  give, 
She  then  should  bid  that  I  no  longer  live, 
Nor  shall  she  see  her  servant  sue  for  grace. 

And  say  to  Him  who  is  compassion's  key, 
Ere  from  her  thou  depart, 
That  He  may  tell  her  of  my  reason  fair,  — 
"  Through  favor  unto  my  sweet  melody, 
Stay  with  her  where  thou  art, 
And  of  thy  servant,  what  thou  wilt,  declare. 
And  if  she  grant  forgiveness  through  thy  prayer, 
Make  peace  on  her  fair  countenance  to  shine." 
When  it  may  please  thee,  gentle  Ballad  mine, 
Honor  to  win,  go  forth  upon  thy  race. 

This  ballad  is  divided  into  three  parts.  In  the 
first,  I  tell  it  whither  it  is  to  go,  and  encourage 
it  that  it  may  go  the  more  assured ;  and  I  tell 
whose  company  it  is  to  seek,  if  it  wishes  to  go 
securely,  and  without  any  danger.  In  the  second, 
I  tell  that  which  it  is  beholden  to  make  known. 
In  the  third,  I  give  it  leave  to  go  when  it  will, 
commending  its  going  to  the  arms  of  fortune. 
The  second  part  begins,  "  With  dulcet  sound  ;  " 
the  third,  "  When  it  may  please  thee."  Some 


22  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

man  may  object  against  me  and  say,  that  he  un- 
derstands not  to  whom  my  speech  in  the  second 
person  is  addressed,  since  the  ballad  is  naught 
else  but  these  words  which  I  am  speaking ;  and 
therefore  I  say  that  I  intend  to  solve  and  clear  up 
this  doubt  in  this  little  book,  even  in  a  more  diffi- 
cult passage ;  and  then  he  who  may  here  be  hi 
doubt,  or  who  may  choose  to  object  after  that  fash- 
ion, will  understand. 

XIII. 

After  this  above-described  vision,  having  now 
spoken  the  words  that  Love  had  imposed  on  me  to 
speak,  many  and  diverse  thoughts  began  to  assail 
and  to  try  me,  and  against  each  I  was  as  it  were 
without  defence.  Among  which  thoughts  four 
chiefly  hindered  the  repose  of  my  life.  One  of 
them  was  this  :  "  The  lordship  of  Love  is  good,  in 
that  it  withdraws  the  inclination  of  his  liegeman 
from  all  vile  tilings."  The  next  was  this  :  "  The 
lordship  of  Love  is  not  good,  because  the  more 
fidelity  his  liegeman  bears  to  him,  so  much  the 
heavier  and  more  grievous  trials  he  must  needs 
endure."  The  next  was  this :  "  The  name  of  Love 
is  so  sweet  to  hear,  that  it  seems  to  me  impossible 
that  his  effects  in  most  things  should  be  other  than 
sweet,  seeing  that  names  follow  the  tilings  named, 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  23 

as  it  is  written,  Nomina  sunt  consequentia  rerum  " 
[Names  are  consequences  of  things].  The  fourth 
was  this :  "•  The  lady  through  whom  Love  thus 
binds  thee  is  not  as  other  ladies  that  her  heart 
may  be  lightly  moved."  And  each  thought  so 
assailed  me  that  it  made  me  stand  like  one  who 
knows  not  by  which  way  to  take  his  journey,  and 
who  desires  to  go,  and  knows  not  whither  he 
should  go.  And  if  I  thought  of  desiring  to  seek 
a  way  common  to  them,  namely,  that  wherein  all 
would  accord,  this  way  was  very  hostile  to  me, 
namely,  to  call  upon  and  put  myself  in  the  arms 
of  Pity.  And  while  I  abode  in  this  condition,  the 
will  came  to  me  to  write  some  rhymed  words 
thereon,  and  I  devised  then  this  sonnet :  — 

All  of  my  thoughts  concerning  Love  discourse, 

And  have  in  them  so  great  variety, 

That  one  to  wish  his  sway  compelleth  me, 

Another  argues  evil  of  his  force  ; 
One,  hoping,  sweetness  doth  to  me  impart, 

Another  makes  me  oftentimes  lament ; 

Only  in  craving  Pity  they  consent, 

Trembling  with  fear  that  is  within  my  heart. 
Thus  know  I  not  from  which  my  theme  to  take ; 

I  fain  would  speak,  and  know  not  what  to  say ; 

In  such  perplexities  of  love  I  live  : 
And  if  with  all  to  make  accord  I  strive, 

I  needs  unto  my  very  foe  must  pray, 

My  Lady  Pity,  my  defence  to  make. 


24  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

This  sonnet  maybe  divided  into  four  parts.  In 
the  first,  I  say  and  declare  that  all  my  thoughts 
are  concerning  Love :  in  the  second,  I  say  that 
they  are  diverse,  and  I  relate  their  diversity :  in 
the  third,  I  say  in  what  they  all  seem  to  accord  : 
in  the  fourth,  I  say  that,  wishing  to  speak  of 
Love,  I  know  not  from  which  to  take  my  theme, 
and  if  I  wish  to  take  it  from  them  all,  I  needs 
must  call  upon  my  foe,  my  Lady  Pity.  I  say 
"my  Lady,"  as  it  were  in  a  scornful  mode  of 
speech.  The  second  begins  here :  "  And  have  in 
them  ;  "  the  third,  "  Only  in  craving  ;  "  the  fourth, 
"  Thus  know  I." 

XIV. 

After  the  battle  of  the  diverse  thoughts,  it  hap- 
pened that  this  most  gentle  lady  went  to  a  place 
where  many  gentle  ladies  were  assembled ;  to  which 
place  I  was  conducted  by  a  friendly  person,  who 
thought  to  give  me  a  great  pleasure  in  leading 
me  where  so  many  ladies  were  displaying  their 
beauties.  Wherefore  I,  hardly  knowing  whereunto 
I  had  been  led,  and  trusting  myself  to  the  person 
who  had  conducted  his  friend  to  the  verge  of  life, 
said  :  "  Wherefore  are  we  come  to  these  ladies  ?  " 
Then  he  said  to  me  :  "  To  the  end  that  they  may 
be  worthily  served." 

And  the  truth  is,  that  they  were  met  together 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  25 

here  to  attend  on  a  gentle  lady  who  was  married 
that  day ;  and  therefore,  according  to  the  custom 
of  the  above-mentioned  city,  it  behoved  them  to 
bear  her  company  at  her  first  sitting  at  table  in 
the  house  of  her  new-made  husband.  So  that  I, 
believing  to  do  the  pleasure  of  this  friend,  de- 
termined to  stand  in  company  with  him  at  the 
service  of  the  ladies.  And  as  soon  as  I  had  thus 
resolved,  I  seemed  to  feel  a  wonderful  tremor  be- 
gin in  my  breast  on  the  left  side,  and  extend  sud- 
denly through  all  the  parts  of  my  body.  Then  I 
say  that,  dissembling,  I  leaned  against  a  painting 
which  ran  around  the  wall  of  this  house,  and  fear- 
ing lest  my  trembling  should  be  observed  by  others, 
I  lifted  mine  eyes,  and,  looking  at  the  ladies,  saw 
among  them  the  most  gentle  Beatrice.  Then  were 
my  spirits  so  destroyed  by  the  force  that  Love 
acquired,  on  seeing  himself  in  such  neighborhood 
to  this  most  gentle  lady,  that  none  remained  alive 
except  the  spirits  of  sight,  and  even  these  remained 
outside  of  their  instruments,  because  Love  wished 
to  stand  in  their  most  noble  place  to  look  upon  this 
marvellous  lady.  And  although  I  was  other  than 
at  first,  I  grieved  much  for  these  little  spirits,  who 
were  lamenting  bitterly,  and  saying,  "  If  he  so  like 
a  thunderbolt  had  not  smitten  us  from  our  place, 
we  might  stand  to  gaze  upon  the  marvel  of  this 
lady,  as  do  the  others  our  peers." 


26  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

I  say  that  many  of  these  ladies,  perceiving  my 
transfiguration,  began  to  wonder ;  and,  talking, 
made  a  mock  of  me  with  this  most  gentle  lady. 
Thereupon  my  friend,  who  in  good  faith  had  been 
deceived,  took  me  by  the  hand,  and,  leading  me 
out  from  the  sight  of  these  ladies,  asked  me  what 
ailed  me.  Then,  having  somewhat  reposed,  and  my 
dead  spirits  having  risen  again,  and  those  that  were 
driven  out  having  returned  to  their  possessions,  I 
said  to  this  my  friend  these  words  :  "  I  have  held 
my  feet  on  that  part  of  life  beya^id  which  no  man 
can  go  with  intent  to  return." 

And  leaving  him,  I  returned  to  the  chamber 
of  tears,  in  which,  weeping  and  ashamed,  I  said 
within  myself,  "  If  this  lady  knew  my  condition,  I 
do  not  believe  that  she  would  thus  have  made  mock 
of  my  person  ;  nay,  I  believe  that  she  would  feel 
much  pity  therefor."  And  being  in  this  grief,  I 
resolved  to  say  some  words  in  which,  speaking  to 
her,  I  woidd  explain  the  cause  of  my  transfigure- 
ment,  and  would  say  that  I  know  well  that  it  is 
not  known,  and  that,  were  it  known,  I  believe 
that  it  would  move  others  to  pity;  and  I  re- 
solved to  say  them,  desiring  that  peradventure 
they  might  come  to  her  hearing.  And  then  I 
devised  this  sonnet :  — 

With  other  ladies  you  make  mock  of  me, 
And  think  not,  Lady,  of  the  reason  why 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  27 

So  strange  a  shape  I  offer  to  your  eye, 
Whene'er  it  hap  that  I  your  beauty  see. 

If  tliis  you  knew,  your  pity  could  not  hold 
Longer  against  me  its  accustomed  guise; 
For  when  so  near  you  Love  doth  me  surprise, 
He  courage  takes  and  such  assurance  bold, 

He  smites  among  my  spirits  chilled  with  fear, 
And  some  he  slays,  and  some  he  doth  expel, 
So  he  alone  remains  to  look  on  you; 

Hence  I  another's  form  am  changed  into, 
Yet  not  so  changed  but  even  then  full  well 
The  grievous  cries  of  those  expelled  I  hear. 

This  sonnet  I  do  not  divide  into  parts,  because 
the  division  is  made  only  for  the  sake  of  disclos- 
ing the  meaning  of  the  thing  divided ;  therefore, 
since,  through  what  has  been  said  of  its  occasion, 
it  has  been  made  sufficiently  plain,  there  is  no 
need  of  division.  It  is  true  that  among  the  ivords 
whereby  the  occasion  of  this  sonnet  is  set  forth, 
certain  ambiguous  ivords  are  found ;  namely, 
when  I  say  that  Love  slays  all  my  spirits,  and 
only  those  of  vision  remain  alive,  and  even  they 
outside  of  their  instruments.  And  this  ambiguity 
it  were  impossible  to  solve  to  one  who  is  not  in 
like  degree  the  liegeman  of  Love  ;  and  to  such  as 
are  so,  that  is  already  plain  which  would  solve 
these  ambiguous  words  ;  and  therefore,  it  is  not 
well  for  me  to  explain  this  ambiguousness,  since 
my  speech  would  be  vain  or  superjluous. 


28  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

XV. 

After  this  strange  transfiguration,  a  strong 
thought  came  to  me  which  seldom  left  me,  nay, 
rather  continually  recurred  to  me,  and  held  this 
discourse  with  me  :  "  Since  thou  presentest  so  con- 
temptible an  appearance  when  thou  art  near  this 
lady,  why  then  seekest  thou  to  see  her?  Behold,  if 
she  were  to  ask  thee  this,  what  wouldst  thou  have  to 
answer  ?  supposing  that  all  thy  faculties  were  free, 
so  that  thou  couldst  answer  her."  And  to  this 
another  humble  thought  replied,  and  said :  "  If  I 
lost  not  my  faculties  and  were  free  so  that  I  could 
answer,  I  should  say  to  her,  that  so  soon  as  I  picture 
to  myself  her  marvellous  beauty,  so  soon  a  desire  to 
see  her  comes  to  me,  which  is  of  such  great  vir- 
tue that  it  slays  and  destroys  in  my  memory  that 
which  might  rise  against  it ;  and  therefore  past  suf- 
ferings hold  me  not  back  from  seeking  the  sight  of 
her."  Wherefore,  moved  by  such  thoughts,  I  re- 
solved to  say  certain  words,  in  which,  excusing 
myself  to  her  from  blame  on  this  account,  I  would 
also  set  down  what  befell  me  in  her  presence  ;  and 
I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

That  which  opposeth  in  my  mind  cloth  die 
AVhene'er  I  corne  to  see  you,  beauteous  Joy  ! 
And  I  hear  Love  say,  when  to  you  I  'm  nigh, 
"  Begone,  if  death  be  unto  thee  annoy." 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  29 

My  face  the  color  of  my  heart  displays, 

Which,  fainting,  any  chance  support  doth  seek  ; 

And  as  I  tremble  in  my  drunken  daze, 

•"  Die  !  die  ! "  the  very  stones  appear  to  shriek. 

He  who  may  then  behold  me  doeth  ill, 
If  my  affrighted  soul  he  comfort  not, 
Showing  at  least  that  me  he  pitieth, 

Through  that  compassion  which  your  scorn  doth  kill, 
And  which  is  by  the  lifeless  look  begot 
Of  eyes  which  have  a  longing  for  their  death. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  two  parts.  In  the 
first,  I  tell  the  reason  why  I  abstain  not  from 
seeking  the  presence  of  this  lady  ;  in  the  second, 
I  tell  that  which  lief  alls  me  when  I  draw  nigh  to 
her,  and  this  part  begins  here:  "And  I  hear 
Love."  And  this  second  part  is  also  divided 
into  five,  according  to  the  five  different  facts  re- 
lated ;  for  in  the  first  I  tell  that  which  Love, 
counselled  by  the  reason,  says  to  me  ivhen  I  am 
near  her ;  in  the  second,  I  set  forth  the  state  of 
my  heart  by  the  example  of  my  face  ;  in  the  third, 
I  tell  how  every  reliance  fails  me;  in  the  fourth, 
I  say  that  he  sins  who  shows  not  pity  for  me, 
inasmuch  as  this  would  be  some  comfort  to  me ; 
in  the  last,  I  tell  why  others  ought  to  have  pity, 
namely,  because  of  the  piteous  look  which  comes 
into  my  eyes,  which  piteous  look  is  destroyed, 
that  is,  is  not  apparent  unto  others,  on  account 
of  the  derision  of  this  lady  which  draws  to  the 


30  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

like  disposition  those  who  perchance  might  see 
this  woe.  The  second  part  begins  here :  "  My 
face ;  "  the  third,  "  And  as  I  tremble  ; "  the 
fourth,  "  He  who  may  then;"  the  fifth,  "Through 
that  compassion." 

XVI. 

After  I  had  devised  this  sormet,  a  wish  moved 
me  to  say  also  some  words  in  which  I  would  tell 
four  things  further  in  regard  to  my  state,  which  it 
seemed  to  me  had  not  yet  been  made  manifest  by 
me.  The  first  of  which  is,  that  of ttimes  I  grieved 
when  my  memory  excited  my  fancy  to  imagine 
what  Love  did  to  me ;  the  second  is,  that  oft- 
times  Love  assailed  me  on  a  sudden  with  such  force 
that  naught  remained  alive  in  me  save  a  thought 
which  spoke  of  my  lady ;  the  third  is,  that,  when 
this  onset  of  Love  thus  attacked  me,  I  went,  almost 
quite  without  color,  to  look  on  this  lady,  believing 
that  the  sight  of  her  would  be  my  defence  from 
this  attack,  forgetting  that  which  befell  me  in  ap- 
proaching gentleness  so  great ;  the  fourth  is,  how 
this  sight  not  only  defended  me  not,  but  finally 
discomfited  my  little  remaining  life.  And  there- 
fore I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

The  dark  condition  Love  doth  on  me  lay 
Many  a  time  occurs  unto  my  thought, 
And  then  comes  pity,  so  that  oft  I  say, 
Ah  me  !  to  such  a  pass  was  man  e'er  brought  ? 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  31 

For  on  a  sudden  Love  with  me  doth  strive, 
So  that  my  life  almost  abandons  me  ; 
One  spirit  only  doth  escape  alive, 
And  that  remains  because  it  speaks  of  thee. 

Then  to  mine  aid  I  summon  up  my  strength, 
And  so,  all  pale,  and  empty  of  defence, 
I  seek  thy  sight,  thinking  to  be  made  whole  ; 

And  if  to  look  I  lift  mine  eyes  at  length, 

Within  my  heart  an  earthquake  doth  commence, 
Which  from  my  pulses  driveth  out  the  soul. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  four  parts,  inas- 
much as  four  things  are  related  in  it ;  and  since 
these  are  spoken  of  above,  I  concern  myself  only 
to  distinguish  the  parts  by  their  beginnings  : 
wherefore  I  say  that  the  second  part  begins  here  : 
"  For  on  a  sudden ; "  the  third,  here :  "  Then  to 
mine  aid ;"  the  fourth  :  "  And  if  to  look." 

XVII. 

After  I  had  devised  these  three  sonnets,  in 
which  I  had  spoken  to  this  lady,  since  they  left 
little  of  my  condition  untold,  thinking  to  be  silent 
and  to  say  no  more  of  this,  because  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  sufficiently  disclosed  myself,  although 
ever  afterwards  I  should  abstain  from  addressing 
her,  it  behoved,  me  to  take  up  a  new  theme,  and 
one  more  noble  than  the  foregoing.  And  because 
the  occasion  of  the  new  theme  is  pleasant  to  hear, 
I  will  tell  it  as  briefly  as  I  can. 


32  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

XVIII. 

Inasmuch  as  through  my  looks  many  persons 
had  learned  the  secret  of  my  heart,  certain  ladies 
who  were  met  together,  taking  pleasure  in  one 
another's  company,  were  well  acquainted  with  my 
heart,  because  each  of  them  had  witnessed  many 
of  my  discomfitures.  And  I,  passing  near  them, 
as  chance  led  me,  was  called  by  one  of  these 
gentle  ladies ;  and  she  who  had  called  me  was  a 
lady  of  very  pleasing  speech ;  so  that,  when  I  drew 
nigh  to  them,  and  saw  plainly  that  my  most  gentle 
lady  was  not  among  them,  reassuring  myself,  I 
saluted  them,  and  asked  what  might  be  their  plea- 
sure. The  ladies  were  many,  and  certain  of  them 
were  laughing  together.  There  were  others  who 
were  looking  at  me,  awaiting  what  I  might  say. 
There  were  others  who  were  talking  together,  one 
of  whom,  turning  her  eyes  toward  me,  and  calling 
me  by  name,  said  these  words :  "  To  what  end 
lovest  thou  this  thy  lady,  since  thou  canst  not  sus- 
tain her  presence  ?  Tell  it  to  us,  for  surely  the 
end  of  such  a  love  must  be  most  strange."  And 
when  she  had  said  these  words  to  me,  not  only  she, 
but  all  the  others,  began  to  await  with  their  look 
my  reply.  Then  T  said  to  them  these  words : 
"  My  ladies,  the  end  of  my  love  was  formerly  the 
salutation  of  this  lady  of  whom  you  perchance  are 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  33 

thinking,  and  in  that  dwelt  the  beatitude  which 
was  the  end  of  all  my  desires.  But  since  it  has 
pleased  her  to  deny  it  to  me,  my  lord  Love, 
through  his  grace,  has  placed  all  my  beatitude  in 
that  which  cannot  fail  me." 

Then  these  ladies  began  to  speak  together :  and 
as  sometimes  we  see  rain  falling  mingled  with 
beautiful  snow,  so  it  seemed  to  me  I  saw  their 
words  issue  mingled  with  sighs.  And  after  they 
had  somewhat  spoken  among  themselves,  this  lady 
who  had  first  spoken  to  me  said  to  me  yet  these 
words  :  "  We  pray  thee  that  thou  tell  us  wherein 
consists  this  beatitude  of  thine."  And  I,  replying 
to  her,  said  thus :  "  In  those  words  which  praise 
my  lady."  And  she  replied :  "  If  thou  hast  told 
us  the  truth,  those  words  which  thou  hast  said  to 
her,  setting  forth  thine  own  condition,  must  have 
been  composed  with  other  intent." 

Then  I,  thinking  on  these  words,  as  if 
ashamed,  departed  from  them,  and  went  saying 
within  myself :  "  Since  there  is  such  beatitude  in 
those  words  which  praise  my  lady,  why  has  my 
speech  been  of  aught  else?"  And  therefore  I 
resolved  always  henceforth  to  take  for  theme  of 
my  speech  that  which  should  be  the  praise  of  this 
most  gentle  one.  And  thinking  much  on  this,  I 
seemed  to  myself  to  have  undertaken  a  theme  too 
lofty  for  me,  so  that  I  dared  not  to  begin  ;  and 


34  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

thus  I  tarried  some  days  with  desire  to  speak,  and 
with  fear  of  beginning. 

XIX. 

Then  it  came  to  pass  that,  walking  on  a  road 
alongside  of  which  was  flowing  a  very  clear 
stream,  so  great  a  desire  to  say  somewhat  in  verse 
came  upon  me,  that  I  began  to  consider  the  method 
I  should  observe ;  and  I  thought  that  to  speak  of 
her  would  not  be  becoming  unless  I  were  to  speak 
to  ladies  in  the  second  person ;  and  not  to  every 
lady,  but  only  to  those  who  are  gentle,  and  are  not 
women  merely.  Then  I  say  that  my  tongue  spoke 
as  if  moved  of  its  own  accord,  and  said,  Ladies 
that  have  intelligence  of  Low.  These  words  I 
laid  up  in  my  mind  with  great  joy,  thinking  to 
take  them  for  my  beginning ;  wherefore  then, 
having  returned  to  the  above-mentioned  city,  after 
some  days  of  thought  I  began  a  canzone  with  this 
beginning,  arranged  in  the  mode  which  will  be 
seen  below  in  its  division. 

Ladies  that  have  intelligence  of  Love, 
I  of  my  lady  wish  with  you  to  speak  ; 
Xot  that  I  can  believe  to  end  her  praise, 
But  to  discourse  that  I  may  ease  my  mind. 
I  say  that  when  I  think  upon  her  worth, 
So  sweet  doth  Love  make  himself  feel  to  me, 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  35 

That  if  I  then  should  lose  not  hardihood, 

Speaking,  I  should  enamour  all  mankind. 

And  I  wish  not  so  loftily  to  speak 

As  to  become,  through  fear  of  failure,  vile  ; 

But  of  her  gentle  nature  I  will  treat 

In  manner  light  compared  with  her  desert, 

Ye  loving  dames  and  damosels,  with  you, 

For  't  is  not  thing  of  which  to  speak  to  others. 

An  angel  crieth  in  the  mind  divine, 

And  saith  :  "  O  Sire,  on  earth  is  to  be  seen 
A  miracle  in  action,  that  proceeds 
From  out  a  soul  which  far  as  here  doth  shine. 
Heaven,  which  hath  not  any  other  defect 
Save  want  of  her,  demands  her  of  its  Lord, 
And  every  Saint  doth  for  this  favor  beg." 
Only  Compassion  our  part  defendeth  ; 
And  thus  speaks  God,  who  of  my  lady  thinks  : 
"  O  my  elect,  now  suffer  ye  in  peace 
That,  while  it  pleaseth  me,  your  hope  abide 
There,  where  is  one  who  dreads  the  loss  of  her  : 
And  who  shall  say  in  hell  to  the  foredoomed, 
'  I  have  beheld  the  hope  of  those  in  bliss.'  " 

My  lady  is  desired  in  highest  heaven  ; 
Now  will  I  of  her  virtue  make  you  know. 
I  say  :  Whoso  would  seem  a  gentle  dame 
Should  go  with  her  ;  for  when  she  goes  her  way 
Love  casts  a  frost  upon  all  caitiff  hearts, 
So  that  their  every  thought  doth  freeze  and  perish. 
And  who  can  bear  to  stay  on  her  to  look 
Will  noble  thing  become,  or  else  will  die. 
And  when  one  finds  that  he  may  worthy  be 
To  look  on  her,  he  doth  his  virtue  prove  ; 


36  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

For  that  arrives  to  him  which  gives  him  health, 
And  humbles  him  till  he  forgets  all  wrong. 
Yet  hath  God  given  her  for  greater  grace, 
That  who  hath  spoke  with  her  cannot  end  ill. 

Love  saith  concerning  her  :  "  How  can  it  be 

That  mortal  thing  be  thus  adorned,  and  pure  ?  " 
Then,  gazing  on  her,  to  himself  he  swears 
That  God  in  her  a  new  thing  means  to  make. 
Color  of  pearl  so  clothes  her  as  doth  best 
Become  a  lady,  nowise  in  excess. 
Whate'er  of  good  Nature  can  make  she  is, 
And  by  her  pattern  beauty  tries  itself. 
From  out  her  eyes,  liowe'er  she  moveth  them, 
Spirits  inflamed  of  love  go  forth,  which  strike 
The  eyes  of  him  who  then  may  look  on  them, 
And  enter  so  that  each  doth  find  the  heart. 
Love  you  behold  depicted  in  her  smile, 
Whereon  no  one  can  look  with  steadfast  gaze. 

I  know,  Canzone,  thou  wilt  go  to  speak 
With  many  ladies,  when  I  send  thee  forth. 
And  now  I  bid  thee,  having  bred  thee  up 
As  young  and  simple  daughter  unto  Love, 
That  where  thou  comest  thou  shouldst  praying  say 
' '  Direct  me  on  my  way,  for  I  am  sent 
To  her  with  praise  of  whom  I  am  adorned." 
And  if  thou  wishest  not  to  go  in  vain, 
Make  thou  no  stay  where  villain  folk  may  be  ; 
Endeavor,  if  thou  mayst,  to  be  acquaint 
Only  with  lady  or  with  courteous  man, 
Who  thee  shall  guide  along  the  quickest  way. 
Thou  wilt  find  Love  in  company  with  her  ; 
Commend  me  to  him  as  behoveth  thee. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  37 

In  order  that  this  canzone  may  be  better  under- 
stood, I  shall  divide  it  more  elaborately  than  the 
other  preceding  things,  and  therefore  I  make  of 
it  three  parts.  The  first  part  is  a  proem  to  the 
words  which  follow ;  the  second  is  the  subject 
treated  of;  the  third  is,  as  it  were,  a  handmaid 
to  the  ivords  which  precede.  The  second  begins 
here :  "  An  angel  crieth  ; "  the  third  here  :  "  I 
know,  Canzone."  The  first  part  is  divided  into 
four  ;  in  the  first,  I  tell  to  whom  I  wish  to  speak 
of  my  lady,  and  wherefore  I  wish  to  speak;  in 
the  second,  I  tell  what  she  seems  to  myself,  when 
I  think  upon  her  worth,  and  how  I  would  speak 
if  I  lost  not  hardihood  ;  in  the  third,  I  tell  how 
I  think  to  speak  in  order  that  I  may  not  be  hin- 
dered by  faintheartedjiess  ;  in  the  fourth,  repeat- 
ing yet  once  more  to  whom  I  intend  to  speak, 
I  tell  the  reason  ivhy  I  speak  to  them.  The 
second  begins  here:  "I  say;"  the  third,  here: 
"  And  I  wish  not ;  "  the  fourth  here :  "  Ye  loving 
dames." 

TJien  when  I  say,  "  An  angel  crieth,"  /  begin 
to  treat  of  this  lady,  and  this  part  is  divided  into 
two  ;  in  the  first,  I  tell  ivhat  is  comprehended  of 
her  in  heaven  ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  ^uhat  is  com- 
prehended of  her  on  earth,  —  here :  "  My  lady  is 
desired." 

This  second  part  is  divided  into  two  ;  for  in 


38  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

the  first  I  speak  of  her  in  respect  of  the  nobility 
of  her  soul,  recounting  some  of  the  virtues  which 
proceed  from  her  soul ;  in  the  second,  I  speak 
of  her  in  respect  of  the  nobility  of  her  body, 
recounting  some  of  her  beauties,  —  here :  "  Love 
saith  concerning  her."  This  second  part  is  divided 
into  two  ;  for  in  the  first  I  speak  of  some  of  the 
beauties  which  belong  to  her  whole  person  ;  in  the 
second,  I  speak  of  some  of  the  beauties  which 
belong  to  special  parts  of  her  person,  —  here  : 
"  From  out  her  eyes."  This  second  part  is  divided 
into  two ;  for  in  one  I  speak  of  the  eyes  which 
are  the  beginning  of  Love  ;  in  the  second,  I  speak 
of  the  mouth  which  is  the  end  of  Love.  And  in 
order  that  every  evil  thought  may  be  removed 
hence,  let  him  who  reads  remember  what  is  written 
above,  that  the  salutation  of  this  lady,  which  was 
an  action  of  her  mouth,  was  the  end  of  my  desires 
so  long  as  I  was  able  to  receive  it. 

Then  when  I  say,  "  I  know,  Canzone,"  /  add 
a  stanza,  as  if  for  a  handmaid  to  the  others,  in 
which  I  tell  what  I  desire  of  this  my  canzone. 
And  since  this  last  part  is  easy  to  be  understood, 
I  do  not  trouble  myself  with  more  divisions. 

I  say,  indeed,  that  to  make  the  meaning  of  this 
canzone  more  clear,  it  might  be  needful  to  employ 
more  minute  divisions  ;  but  nevertheless  it  icill 
not  displease  me  that  he  who  has  not  wit  enough 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  39 

to  understand  it  l>y  means  of  those  already  made 
should  let  it  alone;  for  surely  I  fear  I  have  com- 
municated its  meaning  to  too  many  even  through 
these  divisions  which  have  been  made,  if  it  should 
happen  that  many  should  hear  it. 

XX. 

After  this  canzone  had  been  somewhat  di- 
vulged to  the  world,  inasmuch  as  one  of  my  friends 
had  heard  it,  a  desire  moved  him  to  beg  me  that  I 
should  tell  him  what  Love  is,  entertaining  perhaps 
through  the  words  he  had  heard  a  hope  of  me  be- 
yond my  desert.  Wherefore  I,  thinking  that  after 
such  a  treatise  it  were  beautiful  to  treat  somewhat 
of  Love,  and  thinking  that  my  friend  was  to  be 
served,  resolved  to  speak  words  in  which  I  would 
treat  of  Love,  and  then  I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

Love  is  but  one  thing  with  the  gentle  heart, 
As  in  the  saying  of  the  sage  we  find  ; 
Thus  one  from  other  cannot  be  apart, 
More  than  the  reason  from  the  reasoning  mind. 

When  Xature  amorous  becomes,  she  makes 

Love  then  her  Lord,  the  heart  his  dwelling-place, 
Within  which,  sleeping,  his  repose  he  takes, 
Sometimes  for  brief,  and  sometimes  for  long  space. 

Beauty  in  lady  sage  doth  then  appear 

Which  pleaseth  so  the  eyes,  that  in  the  heart 
Desire  for  the  pleasing  thing  hath  birth  ; 


40  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

And  sometimes  it  so  long  abideth  there, 

It  makes  Love's  spirit  wide  awake  to  start : 
The  like  in  lady  doth  a  man  of  worth. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  two  parts.  In  the 
first,  I  tell  of  him  in  respect  of  what  he  is  po- 
tentially ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  of  him  in  respect 
to  his  potentiality  being  brought  into  act.  The 
second  begins  here :  "  Beauty  in  lady  sage."  The 
first  is  divided  into  two ;  in  the  first,  I  tell  in 
what  subject  this  potentiality  exists  ;  in  the  sec- 
ond, I  tell  how  this  subject  and  this  potentiality 
are  brought  together  into  being,  and  how  one  is 
related  to  the  other,  as  form  to  matter.  TJie  sec- 
ond begins  here  :  "  When  Nature."  Then,  ^vhen 
I  say  :  "  Beauty  in  lady,"  /  tell  how  this  poten- 
tiality is  brought  into  act ;  and  first,  hoiv  it  is 
brought  in  man,  then,  how  it  is  brought  in  woman, 
—  here  :  "  The  like  in  lady." 

XXI. 

After  I  had  treated  of  Love  in  the  above 
rhyme,  the  will  came  to  me  to  speak  further  in 
praise  of  this  most  gentle  lady  words  by  which  I 
would  show  how  this  Love  is  awakened  by  her, 
and  how  she  not  only  awakens  him  there  where  he 
is  sleeping,  but  there  where  he  is  not  potentially 
she,  marvellously  working,  makes  him  come ;  and 
I  devised  then  this  sonnet :  — 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  41 

Within  her  eyes  my  lady  beareth  Love, 
So  that  whom  she  regards  is  gentle  made  ; 
All  toward  her  turn,  where'er  her  steps  are  stayed, 
And  whom  she  greets,  his  heart  doth  trembling  move  ; 

So  that  with  face  cast  down,  all  pale  to  view, 
For  every  fault  of  his  he  then  doth  sigh  ; 
Anger  and  pride  away  before  her  fly  :  — 
Assist  me,  dames,  to  pay  her  honor  due. 

All  sweetness  truly,  every  humble  thought, 

The  heart  of  him  who  hears  her  speak  doth  hold  ; 
Whence  he  is  blessed  who  hath  seen  her  erewhile. 

What  seems  she  when  a  little  she  doth  smile 
Cannot  be  kept  in  mind,  cannot  be  told, 
Such  strange  and  gentle  miracle  is  wrought. 

This  sonnet  has  three  parts.  In  the  first,  I  tell 
how  this  lady  reduces  this  potentiality  into  act,  as 
respects  that  most  noble  part,  her  eyes  ;  and  in 
the,  third,  I  tell  how  this  same  thing  is  effected  as 
respects  that  most  noble  part,  her  mouth.  And 
between  the  first  and  the  third  is  a  little  part, 
which  beseeches  aid,  as  it  tvere,for  the  preceding 
part  and  for  the  following,  and  begins  here  : 
"  Assist  me,  dames."  The  third  begins  here  : 
"  All  sweetness."  The  first  is  divided  into  three  ; 
for  in  the  first  I  tell  hoiv  she  until  power 
makes  gentle  that  ivhich  she  looks  upon ;  and 
this  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  she  brings  Love 
potentially  there  where  he  is  not.  In  the  sec- 
ond, I  tell  how  she  brings  Love  into  act  in  the 


42  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

hearts  of  all  those  upon  whom  she  looks.  In 
the  third,  I  tell  that  which  she  then  effects  with 
power  in  their  hearts.  The  second  begins,  "  All 
toward ;  "  the  third,  "  And  whom  she  greets." 

When,  afterward,  I  say,  "  Assist  me,  dames," 
/  indicate  to  whom  it  is  my  intention  to  speak, 
calling  upon  these  ladies  to  aid  me  to  pay  her 
honor.  Then,  when  I  say,  "All  sweetness,"  /  tell 
the  same  thing  as  has  been  said  in  the  first  part, 
according  to  two  acts  of  her  mouth,  one  of  which 
is  her  most  sweet  speech,  and  the  other  her  mar- 
vellous smile,  except  that  I  do  not  tell  of  this  last 
how  it  works  in  the  hearts  of  others,  because  the 
memory  cannot  retain  it,  nor  its  effects. 

XXII. 

Not  many  days  had  passed  after  this,  when  it 
pleased  the  Lord  of  Glory,  who  refused  not  death 
for  himself,  that  he  who  had  been  the  begetter  of 
such  a  marvel  as  this  most  noble  Beatrice  was  seen 
to  be,  departing  from  this  life,  should  go  verily 
unto  the  eternal  glory.  Wherefore,  inasnmch  as 
such  a  departure  is  grievous  to  those  who  remain, 
and  have  been  friends  of  him  who  is  gone,  —  and 
there  is  no  friendship  so  intimate  as  that  of  a  good 
father  with  a  good  child,  and  of  a  good  child  with 
a  good  father ;  and  this  lady  had  been  of  the 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  43 

highest  degree  of  goodness,  and  her  father,  as  is 
believed  by  many,  and  is  true,  had  been  good  in 
a  high  degree,  —  it  is  plain  that  this  lady  was 
most  bitterly  full  of  grief. 

And  inasmuch  as,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  above-mentioned  city,  ladies  assemble  with 
ladies,  and  men  with  men,  in  such  affliction,  many 
ladies  assembled  where  this  Beatrice  was  weeping 
piteously.  Wherefore,  seeing  certain  of  them  re- 
turning from  her,  I  heard  them  speak  of  this  most 
gentle  lady,  how  she  was  lamenting.  Among  their 
words  I  heard  how  they  said  :  "  Truly,  she  so  weeps 
that  whoever  should  behold  her  must  die  of  pity." 
Then  these  ladies  passed  on ;  and  I  remained  in 
such  grief  that  some  tears  bathed  my  face,  so  that, 
often  putting  my  hands  before  mine  eyes,  I  cov- 
ered it.  And  had  it  not  been  that  I  expected  to 
hear  further  of  her,  for  I  was  in  a  place  where 
most  of  the  ladies  who  came  from  her  passed  by, 
I  should  have  hidden  myself  as  soon  as  the  tears 
had  assailed  me. 

And,  therefore,  still  tarrying  in  the  same  place, 
more  ladies  passed  near  me,  who  went  along  talk- 
ing together,  and  saying :  "  Who  of  us  should  ever 
be  joyful,  since  we  have  heard  this  lady  speak  so 
piteously  ?  "  After  these,  others  passed,  who  said, 
as  they  went  by :  "  This  one  who  is  here  is  weeping 
neither  more  nor  less  than  if  he  had  seen  her  as 


44  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

we  have."  And  then  others  said  of  me :  "  Behold, 
this  man  is  become  such  that  he  seems  not  him- 
self." And  thus  these  ladies  passing  by,  I  heard 
speech  of  her  and  of  myself  after  this  fashion  which 
has  been  told. 

Wherefore,  afterwards  musing,  I  resolved  to 
speak  words  in  verse,  inasmuch  as  I  had  fit  occa- 
sion to  speak,  in  which  I  would  include  all  that  I 
had  heard  from  these  ladies.  And  since  I  would 
willingly  have  questioned  them,  had  it  not  been 
for  blame  to  me,  I  treated  my  theme  as  if  I  had 
questioned  them,  and  they  had  replied  to  me. 
And  I  made  two  sonnets  ;  and  in  the  first  I  ques- 
tion, in  the  way  in  which  the  desire  came  to  me  to 
question  ;  in  the  other,  I  tell  their  answer,  taking 
that  which  I  heard  from  them  as  if  they  had  said 
it  in  reply  to  me.  And  I  began  the  first,  "  Ye 
who  a  semblance ; "  the  second,  "  Art  thou  then 
he." 

Ye  who  a  semblance  so  dejected  bear, 

And  who  with  eyes  cast  down  your  trouble  show, 
Whence  do  ye  come,  that  thus  your  color  now 
Appears  like  that  which  pity's  self  doth  wear  ? 

Our  gentle  lady  truly  have  ye  seen, 

Bathing  her  face  with  tears  of  loving  woe  ? 
Tell  me,  ye  ladies  ;  my  heart  tells  me  so, 
Since  I  behold  you  going  with  grave  mien. 

And  if  ye  come  from  sight  of  grief  so  great, 
Be  pleased  to  stay  a  little  here  with  me, 
And  hide  not  from  me  what  may  be  her  state. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  45 

For  iu  your  eyes  such  trace  of  tears  I  see, 
And  ye  return  with  such  a  mournful  gait, 
That  my  heart  trembles,  thus  beholding  ye. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  tioo  parts.  In  the 
first,  I  call  upon  and  ask  these  ladies  if  they  come 
from  her,  saying  to  them  that  I  believe  it,  because 
they  return  as  if  ennobled.  In  the  second,  I  pray 
them  to  tell  me  of  her ;  and  the  second  begins 
here  :  "  And  if  ye  come." 

Art  thou  then  he  who  oft  discourse  did  hold 
Of  this  our  lady  unto  us  alone  ? 
Thy  voice  resembles  his  indeed  in  tone, 
But  thy  form  seems  to  us  of  other  mould. 

Ah  !  wherefore  weep'st  thou  so  without  control, 
Thou  makest  us  to  feel  a  pity  keen  ? 
And  hast  thou  then,  forsooth,  her  weeping  seen, 
So  thou  canst  not  conceal  thy  grieving  soul  ? 

Leave  tears  to  us,  and  let  us  sadly  go, 
(He  doeth  ill.  who  seeketh  us  to  aid,) 
For  we  have  heard  her  speak  in  tearful  woe  ; 

And  on  her  face  such  sorrow  is  displayed, 
That  who  had  wished  to  gaze  upon  her  so, 
Before  her  would  in  death  be  weeping  laid. 

This  sonnet  has  four  parts,  according  to  the 
four  fashions  of  speech  of  the  ladles  for  whom  I 
reply.  And  because  these  are  sufficiently  shown 
above,  I  do  not  concern  myself  to  tell  the  purport 
of  the  parts,  and  therefore  I  only  marl;  them. 


46  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

The  second  begins  here :  "  Ah  !  wherefore  weep'st 
thou  ;  "  the  third  :  "  Leave  tears  to  us  ;  "  the 
fourth:  "And  on  her  face." 

XXIII. 

A  few  days  after  this  it  fell  out  that  a  grievous 
infirmity  came  upon  me  in  a  certain  part  of  my 
body,  from  which  I  suffered  for  many  days  most 
bitter  pain,  which  brought  me  to  such  weakness 
that  I  was  forced  to  lie  as  one  who  cannot  move. 
I  say  that  on  the  ninth  day,  feeling  almost  intoler- 
able pain,  a  thought  came  to  me  which  wras  of 
my  lady.  And  when  I  had  thought  somewhat  of 
her,  I  returned  in  thought  to  my  enfeebled  life, 
and  seeing  how  slight  was  its  duration,  even  were 
it  sound,  I  began  lamenting  within  myself  at  such 
wretchedness.  Wherefore,  sighing  deeply,  I  said 
within  myself :  "  It  must  needs  be  that  the  most 
gentle  Beatrice  shall  at  some  time  die." 

And  thereupon  a  strong  bewilderment  so  over- 
came me,  that  I  closed  my  eyes,  and  began  to  be 
distracted  like  a  person  in  a  frenzy,  and  to  imagine 
in  this  wise  :  that,  at  the  beginning  of  the  wander- 
ing which  my  fancy  made,  certain  faces  of  ladies 
with  hair  dishevelled  appeared  to  me,  and  they 
said  to  me :  u  Thou  too  shalt  die."  And  after 
these  ladies,  there  appeared  to  me  certain  strange 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  47 

faces,  and  horrible  to  behold,  which  said  to  me : 
«  Thou  art  dead." 

Thus  my  fancy  beginning  to  wander,  I  was 
brought  to  such  a  pass  that  I  knew  not  where  I 
was ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  ladies  with 
hair  dishevelled  go  by,  weeping,  marvellously  sad ; 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  the  sun  grow  dark, 
so  that  the  stars  showed  themselves  of  such  a  color 
as  to  make  me  deem  they  wept ;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  birds  as  they  flew  fell  dead,  and  that 
there  were  very  great  earthquakes.  And  in  this 
fantasy,  marvelling  and  much  afraid.  I  imagined 
that  a  certain  friend  came  to  me  to  say  :  "  Dost 
thou  then  not  know  ?  thine  admirable  lady  is  de- 
parted from  this  world."  Then  I  began  to  weep 
very  piteously ;  and  wept  not  only  in  my  imagi- 
nation, but  wept  with  my  eyes,  Lathing  them  with 
real  tears. 

I  imagined  that  I  looked  toward  heaven,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  a  multitude  of  angels,  who 
were  returning  upwards,  and  had  before  them  a 
little  cloud  of  exceeding  whiteness  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  these  angels  sang  gloriously,  and  the 
words  of  their  song  it  seemed  to  me  were  these  : 
"  Osanna  in  p.mY.s/.s1  / "  —  and  aught  else  me- 
seemed  not  to  hear.  Then  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  heart  wherein  was  so  much  love  said  to  me : 
"  True  is  it  that  our  lady  lies  dead."  And  forth- 


48  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

with  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  went  to  behold  the  body 
in  which  that  most  noble  and  blessed  soul  had 
dwelt.  And  so  strong  was  the  erring  fancy,  that 
it  showed  to  me  this  lady  dead  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  ladies  had  covered  her  head  with  a  white 
veil,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  her  face  had  such 
an  aspect  of  humility  that  it  seemed  to  say  :  "  Now 
do  I  behold  the  beginning  of  peace." 

In  this  imagination  there  came  to  me  such 
humility  through  seeing  her,  that  I  called  upon 
Death,  and  said  :  "  Most  sweet  Death,  come  unto 
me,  and  be  not  discourteous  to  me  ;  for  thou  ought- 
est  to  be  gentle,  in  such  place  hast  thou  been. 
Come  then  unto  me,  who  greatly  desire  thee  ;  and 
thou  seest  it,  for  I  already  wear  thy  color."  And 
when  I  had  seen  all  the  mournful  ministries  com- 
pleted which  are  wont  to  be  rendered  to  the  bodies 
of  the  dead,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  returned  to  my 
chamber  ;  and  here  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  looked 
toward  heaven,  and  so  strong  was  my  imagination, 
that,  weeping,  I  began  to  say  with  my  real  voice  : 
"  O  most  beautiful  soul,  how  blessed  is  he  who  sees 
thee!"  And  as  I  said  these  words,  with  a  griev- 
ous sob  of  weeping,  and  called  upon  Death  to  come 
unto  me,  a  young  and  gentle  lady,  who  was  at  the 
side  of  my  bed,  believing  that  my  weeping  and  my 
words  were  lamentation  on  account  of  the  pain 
of  my  infirmity,  with  great  fear  began  to  weep. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  49 

Wherefore  other  ladies  who  were  in  the  chamber 
became  aware  that  I  was  weeping,  through  the 
tears  they  saw  her  shed ;  wherefore  making  her, 
who  was  connected  with  me  in  the  nearest  kin- 
ship, depart  from  me,  they  drew  towards  me  to 
wake  me,  believing  that  I  had  been  dreaming,  and 
said  to  me:  "Sleep  no  more,  nor  be  discomforted." 
And  as  they  thus  spoke  to  me,  the  strong  fantasy 
ended  at  the  moment  when  I  was  about  to  say  : 
"O  Beatrice,  blessed  be  thou !  "  And  I  had  al- 
ready said,  "  O  Beatrice,"  when,  arousing  myself,  I 
opened  my  eyes  and  saw  that  I  had  been  deluded. 
And  although  I  had  uttered  this  name,  my  voice 
was  so  broken  by  sobs  that  these  ladies  had  not 
been  able  to  understand  me.  And  notwithstanding 
I  was  sore  ashamed,  nevertheless,  by  some  admoni- 
tion of  Love,  I  turned  me  to  them.  And  when 
they  saw  me,  they  began  to  say  :  "  He  seems  far 
gone :  "  and  to  say  each  to  other :  "  Let  us  try  to 
comfort  him."  Thereupon  they  said  many  words 
to  comfort  me  ;  and  then  they  asked  me  of  what  I 
had  been  afraid.  Wherefore  I,  being  somewhat 
comforted,  and  having  recognized  the  falsity  of  my 
imagining,  replied  to  them,  "I  will  tell  you  what 
has  ailed  me."  Then,  beginning  at  the  beginning, 
I  told  them  even  to  the  end  that  which  I  had  seen, 
keeping  silent  the  name  of  this  most  gentle  lady. 
AVherefore  afterwards,  being  healed  of  this  infir- 


50  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

mity,  I  resolved  to  speak  concerning  that  which 
had  befallen  me,  since  it  seemed  to  me  that  it 
would  be  a  thing  delightful  to  hear ;  and  so  I  de- 
vised this  canzone  concerning  it  :  — 

A  lady,  pitiful,  and  young  in  years, 

Adorned  full  well  with  human  gentilesse, 

Who  present  was  where  oft  I  called  on  Death, 

Seeing  my  eyes  to  be  filled  up  of  woe, 

And  hearing  the  vain  words  that  fell  from  me, 

Was  by  her  fear  impelled  to  weep  aloud  ; 

And  other  ladies  who  were  thus  made  ware 

Of  me,  through  her  who  with  me  there  was  weeping, 

Made  her  to  go  away, 

While  they  drew  near  to  cause  me  to  awake. 

One  said  :  "  No  longer  sleep  ;  " 

And  one  :  "  Why  art  thou  so  discomforted  ?  " 

Thereon  the  novel  fantasy  I  left 

In  giving  utterance  to  my  lady's  name. 

So  mournful  was  my  voice,  and  broken  so 
By  anguish  and  by  tears,  that  I  alone 
The  name  within  my  heart  did  understand. 
And  thereon,  with  the  look  of  utter  shame, 
Which  had  gained  full  possession  of  my  face, 
Love  did  compel  me  unto  them  to  turn. 
And  such  my  color  was  to  look  upon, 
As  made  these  others  to  discourse  of  death. 
"  Ah  !  let  us  comfort  him," 
One  lady  to  the  other  humbly  prayed  ; 
And  oftentimes  they  said  : 

"What  hast   thou  seen  that   thou  no   strength  hast 
left  ?  " 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  51 

And  when  a  little  I  was  comforted, 

"  Ladies,"  I  said,  "  I  will  tell  it  to  you. 
While  I  was  thinking  of  my  fragile  life, 

And  saw  how  slight  continuance  it  hath, 

Love  wept  within  my  heart,  where  he  ahides  ; 

Whereby,  indeed,  my  soul  was  so  dismayed, 

That  then  I,  sighing,  said  within  my  thought : 

'  Sure  it  must  he  my  lady  too  shall  die. ' 

Then  into  such  bewilderment  I  fell, 

I  closed  my  eyes  that  basely  were  weighed  down  ; 

And  consternated  so 

My  spirits  were,  that  each  went  straying  off. 

And  then  imagining, 

Bereft  of  consciousness  alike  and  truth, 

Ladies  with  looks  of  wrath  appeared  to  me, 

Who  said  to  me  :  '  Thou  too  shalt  die,  shalt  die.' 
Then  saw  I  many  fearful  things  within 

The  false  imagining  wherein  I  lay  ; 

Meseemed  to  be  I  know  not  in  what  place, 

And  to  see  ladies  pass  dishevelled  by, 

Some  weeping  and  some  uttering  laments, 

So  that  the  fire  of  sadness  they  shot  forth. 

Then,  as  it  seemed,  I  by  degrees  beheld 

The  sun  grow  dark,  and  then  the  star  appear, 

And  he  and  she  to  weep  ; 

The  birds  in  their  mid-flight  through  air  fell  down, 

And  the  earth  seemed  to  shake  ; 

And  I  beheld  a  man  pale-faced  and  hoarse, 

Who  said  :  '  What  ails   thee  ?    Kiiowst  thou  not  the 
news  ? 

Dead  is  thy  lady,  she  that  was  so  fair.' 
I  raised  my  eyes  which  with  my  tears  were  bathed, 

And  saw  what  seemed  to  be  a  rain  of  manna,  — 


52  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

The  Angels,  who  to  heaven  were  returning, 
And  had  in  front  of  them  a  little  cloud, 
Following  which,  they  all  '  Hosanna  !  '  sang  ; 
Had  they  said  more,  to  you  I  would  it  tell. 
And  then  Love  said  :  '  No  more  I  hide  from  thee  ; 
Come  thou  to  see  our  lady  where  she  lies.' 
The  false  imagining 
Conducted  me  to  see  my  lady  dead  ; 
And,  as  I  looked,  I  saw 
That  ladies  with  a  veil  were  covering  her  ; 
And  she  had  a  humility  so  true, 
It  seemed  as  if  she  said,  '  I  am  in  peace.' 
So  humble  in  my  sorrow  I  became, 

Seeing  in  her  such  humbleness  displayed, 

That  I  said  :  '  Death,  thee  very  sweet  I  hold  ; 

Thou  oughtest  now  to  be  a  gentle  thing, 

Since  thou  within  my  lady  hast  abode, 

And  thou  shouldst  pity  have,  and  not  disdain. 

Behold  !  I  am  so  eager  among  thine 

To  be,  that  I  resemble  thee  in  truth. 

Come  !  my  heart  calleth  thee.' 

Then  I  departed,  the  sad  rites  complete  ; 

And  when  I  was  alone, 

Looking  unto  the  realm  on  high,  I  said, 

'  Blessed  is  he  who  sees  thee,  beauteous  soul  ! ' 

Ye  called  me  thereupon,  thanks  be  to  you." 

This  canzone  has  two  jiarts.  In  the  first,  I 
tell,  peaking  to  an  undefined  person,  how  I  was 
roused  from  a  vain  fantasy  by  certain  ladies,  and 
how  I  promised  them  to  tell  it.  In  the  second, 
I  tell  how  I  told  it  to  them.  The  second  begins 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  53 

here:  "  While  I  was  thinking."      The  first  part  is 

divided  into  two;  in  the  first,  J  tell  that  which 
certain  ladies,  and  that  which  one  alone,  said 
and  did  on  account  of  my  fantasy,  before  I 
had  returned  to  true  consciousness ;  in  the  second, 
I  tell  that  which  these  ladies  said  to  me  after  I 
left  this  frenzy,  and  this  part  begins  here  :  "  So 
mournful  was  my  voice."  Then  when  I  say, 
"  While  I  was  thinking,"  /  tell  how  I  told  them 
this  my  imagination,  and  of  this  I  make  two 
parts.  In  the  first,  I  tell  this  imagination  in  its 
order;  in  the  second,  telling  at  what  point  they 
called  me,  I  thank  them  at  the  close ;  and  this 
part  begins  here :  "  Ye  called  me." 

XXIV. 

After  this  my  vain  imagination,  it  came  to 
pass  one  day  that,  as  I  sat  thoughtful  in  a  certain 
place,  I  felt  a  trembling  begin  in  my  heart,  just  as 
if  I  had  been  in  the  presence  of  this  lady.  Then 
I  say  that  an  imagination  of  Love  came  to  me ; 
for  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  him  coming  from 
that  place  where  my  lady  dwelt;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  joyfully  said  to  me  in  my  heart : 
"  Mind  thou  bless  the  day  on  which  I  took  posses- 
sion of  thee,  for  thou  oughtest  so  to  do."  And 
of  a  truth  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  heart  was  so 


54  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

gladsome,  that  it  did  not   seem  to  me  to  be  my 
heart,  because  of  its  new  condition. 

And  a  little  after  these  words  which  my  heart 
had  said  to  me  with  the  tongue  of  Love,  I  saw  com- 
ing toward  me  a  gentle  lady  who  was  famous  for 
her  beauty,  and  who  had  now  long  been  the  lady 
of  him  my  first  friend.  And  the  name  of  this  lady 
was  Joan,  but  on  account  of  her  beauty,  as  some 
believe,  the  name  of  Primavera  [Spring]  had  been 
given  to  her,  and  thus  she  was  called.  And  be- 
hind her,  as  I  looked,  I  saw  coming  the  marvellous 
Beatrice.  These  ladies  passed  near  me  thus  one 
after  the  other ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Love 
spoke  to  me  in  my  heart,  and  said  :  "  This  first  is 
called  Primavera  solely  because  of  this  coming  of 
to-day ;  for  I  moved  the  giver  of  the  name  to  call 
her  Primavera,  that  is  to  say,  prlma  verrd  [she 
will  come  first]  on  the  day  that  Beatrice  shall 
show  herself  after  the  imagination  of  her  vassal. 
And  if  thou  wilt  further  consider  her  original 
name,  it  means  the  same  as  Primavera,  because 
her  name,  Joan,  is  derived  from  that  John  who 
preceded  the  true  Light,  saying,  Ego  vox  clamantis 
in  deserto :  Parate  viam  Domini  [I  am  the 
voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness  :  Prepare  ye 
the  way  of  the  Lord].  And  also  it  seemed  to  me 
that  after  these  he  said  to  me  other  words,  namely : 
"  lie  who  should  consider  subtilely  would  call  that 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  55 

Beatrice  Love,  because  of  the  great  likeness  she 
has  to  ine."  Wherefore  I,  then  thinking  this  over, 
resolved  to  write  of  it  in  rhyme  to  my  first  friend, 
(keeping  silent  certain  words  which  it  seemed 
should  be  kept  silent,)  for  I  believed  that  his  heart 
still  admired  the  beauty  of  this  gentle  Primavera. 
And  I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

An  amorous  spirit  in  my  heart  that  lay 

I  felt  awaken  from  his  slumber  there  ; 

And  then  I  saw  Love  come  from  far  away, 

But  scarce  I  knew  him,  for  his  joyous  air. 
"Honor  to  me,"  he  said,  "  think  now  to  pay," 

And  with  his  every  word  did  smiles  appear. 

Then  did  my  Lord  a  little  with  me  stay, 

And  from  that  part  wherefrom  he  came  whilere 
I  Lady  Joan  and  Lady  Bice  see, 

Unto  the  place  approaching  where  I  was  ; 

One  marvel  following  the  other  came  ; 
And,  as  my  mind  reporteth  unto  me, 

Love  said,  "This  one  is  Spring,  and  this,  because 

She  so  resembleth  me,  hath  Love  for  name." 

This  sonnet  has  many  parts  ;  the  first  of  which 
tells  how  I  felt  the  wonted  tremor  awake  in  my 
heart,  and  how  it  seemed  that  Love  appeared  to 
me  joyous  from  afar ;  the  second  tells  how  it 
seemed  to  me  that  Love  spoke  to  me  in  my  heart, 
and  what  he  seemed  to  me;  the  third  tells  how, 
after  he  had  been  thus  loith  me  for  some  tirn< ,  L 


56  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

saw  and  heard  certain  things.  The  second  part 
begins  here  :  "  Honor  to  me ;  "  the  third,  here  : 
"  Then  did  my  Lord."  The  third  part  is  divided 
into  two ;  in  the  first,  I  tell  that  which  I  saw  ; 
in  the  second,  I  tell  that  which  I  heard,  and  it 
begins :  "  Love  said." 

XXV. 

It  may  be  that  some  person,  entitled  to  have 
every  doubt  cleared  away,  may  here  be  perplexed 
at  my  speaking  of  Love  as  if  it  were  a  thing  in 
itself,  and  not  only-aii  intellectual  substance,  but 
as  if  it  were  a  corporal  substance.  The  which 
tiling,  in  truth,  is  false,  for  Love  exists  not  in 
itself  as  substance,  but  is  an  accident  in  substance. 
And  that  I  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were  a  body,  and, 
further,  as  if  it  were  a  man,  appears  from  three 
things  which  I  say  of  it.  I  say  that  I  saw  it  come 
from  far  off;  wherefore,  since  coming  implies  a 
local  motion,  and,  according  to  the  Philosopher, 
only  a  body  is  locally  movable  in  itself,  it  appears 
that  I  assume  Love  to  be  a  body.  I  say  further 
of  it,  that  it  laughed,  and  also  that  it  spoke,  which 
things  appear  to  be  properties  of  man,  especially 
the  faculty  of  laughing,  and  thus  it  appears  that 
I  assume  that  it  is  a  man. 

To  explain  this  matter  so  far  as  is  meet  for  the 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  57 

present  occasion,  it  must  first  be  understood  that 
formerly  there  were  no  rhymers  of  Love  in  the 
vulgar  tongue,  but  certain  poets  in  the  Latin  tongue 
were  rhymers  of  Love ;  among  us,  I  mean,  al- 
though perchance  among  other  people  it  happened, 
and  still  happens  that,  as  in  Greece,  not  the  vulgar, 
but  the  lettered  poets  treated  of  these  things.  And 
no  great  number  of  years  have  passed  since  these 
poets  in  the  vulgar  tongue  first  appeared ;  for  to 
write  in  rhyme  in  the  vulgar  is,  after  a  manner, 
the  same  thing  as  to  write  in  verse  in  Latin.  And 
the  proof  that  it  is  but  a  short  time  is,  that,  if  we 
undertake  to  search  in  the  tongue  of  the  oco,  and 
in  the  tongue  of  the  sz,  we  do  not  find  anything 
written  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before 
the  present  time.  And  the  reason  why  some  illit- 
erate persons  acquired  the  fame  of  skill  in  writing 
verse  is,  that  they  were,  so  to  speak,  the  first  who 
wrote  in  the  tongue  of  the  si.  And  the  first  who 
began  to  write  as  a  poet  in  the  vulgar  tongue  was 
moved  to  do  so  because  he  wished  to  make  his 
words  intelligible  to  a  lady  who  could  not  easily 
understand  Latin  verses.  And  this  is  against 
those  who  rhyme  on  any  other  theme  than  Love, 
since  this  mode  of  speech  was  from  the  beginning 
invented  in  order  to  speak  of  Love. 

It  follows  that,  since  a  greater  license  of  speech 
is  granted  to  poets  than  to  writers  of  prose,  and 


58  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

these  writers  in  rhyme  are  no  other  than  poets 
using  the  vulgar  tongue,  it  is  fitting  and  reason- 
able that  greater  license  of  speech  should  be  per- 
mitted to  them  than  to  the  other  writers  in  the 
vulgar  tongue ;  hence,  if  any  figure  or  rhetorical 
coloring  is  allowed  to  poets,  it  is  allowed  also  to 
the  rhymers.  Therefore,  if  we  see  that  the  poets 
have  spoken  of  inanimate  things  as  if  they  had 
sense  and  reason,  and  have  made  them  speak  to- 
gether, and  not  only  real  things,  but  also  things 
not  real  (that  is,  that  they  have  said  of  things 
which  have  no  existence  that  they  speak,  and  have 
often  made  contingent  things  speak  as  if  they  were 
substances  and  human  beings),  it  is  fitting  that  the 
writer  in  rhyme  should  do  the  like,  not,  indeed, 
without  some  reason,  but  with  a  reason  which  it 
may  be  possible  afterwards  to  explain  in  prose. 

That  the  poets  have  thus  spoken  as  has  been 
said,  appears  from  Virgil,  who  says  that  Juno,  that 
is,  a  goddess  hostile  to  the  Trojans,  spoke  to  ^Eolus, 
lord  of  the  winds,  here,  in  the  first  of  the  zEneid : 
SEole,  namque  tibi,  etc.  [^Eolus,  for  to  thee,  etc.]  ; 
and  that  this  lord  replied  to  her,  here:  Tuus,  O 
regiua,  quid  optes,  etc.  [Thine,  O  queen,  what  thou 
askest,  etc.] .  In  this  same  poet  the  inanimate  thing 
speaks  to  the  animate  tiling,  in  the  third  of  the 
^Eneid,  here:  Dardanidce  duri,  etc.  [Ye  hardy 
Trojans,  etc.].  In  Lucan  the  animate  thing  speaks 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  59 

to  the  inanimate,  here :  Multum,  Roma,  tamcn 
dcbcs  civilibus  armis  [Much  dost  thou  owe,  O 
Rome,  to  civic  arms].  In  Horace  a  man  speaks 
to  his  own  knowledge  as  to  another  person ;  and 
not  only  are  they  the  words  of  Horace,  but  he 
says  them  as  the  interpreter  of  the  good  Homer, 
here,  in  his  book  on  Poetry :  Die  mihi,  Musa, 
virum,  etc.  [Tell  to  me,  Muse,  of  the  man,  etc.]. 
In  Ovid,  Love  speaks  as  if  he  were  a  human  per- 
son, at  the  beginning  of  the  book  of  the  Remedy 
for  Love,  here :  Bella  mihi,  video,  bella  parantur, 
ait  [Wars  against  me,  I  see,  wars  are  preparing, 
he  says]. 

And  by  this  the  matter  may  now  be  clear  to  any 
one  who  is  perplexed  in  any  part  of  this  my  little 
book. 

And  in  order  that  no  uncultured  person  may 
derive  any  over-boldness  herefrom,  I  say,  that  the 
poets  do  not  speak  thus  without  reason,  and  that 
those  who  rhyme  ought  not  to  speak  thus,  unless 
they  have  some  reason  for  what  they  say ;  since  it 
would  be  a  great  disgrace  to  him  who  should  rhyme 
anything  under  the  garb  of  a  figure  or  of  rhetorical 
coloring,  if  afterward,  being  asked,  he  should  not 
be  able  to  denude  his  words  of  this  garb,  in  such 
wise  that  they  should  have  a  true  meaning.  And 
my  first  friend  and  I  are  well  acquainted  with  those 
who  rhyme  thus  foolishly. 


60  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

XXVI. 

This  most  gentle  lady,  of  whom  there  has  been 
discourse  in  the  preceding  words,  came  into  such 
favor  among  the  people,  that,  when  she  passed 
along  the  way,  persons  ran  to  see  her  ;  which  gave 
me  wonderful  joy.  And  when  she  was  near  any 
one,  such  modesty  came  into  his  heart  that  he 
dared  not  raise  his  eyes,  or  return  her  salutation ; 
and  of  this  many,  as  having  experienced  it,  could 
bear  witness  for  me  to  whoso  might  not  believe  it. 
She,  crowned  and  clothed  with  humility,  took  her 
way,  showing  no  pride  in  that  which  she  saw  and 
heard.  Many  said,  when  she  had  passed :  "  This 
is  not  a  woman ;  rather  she  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  angels  of  heaven."  And  others  said: 
"  She  is  a  marvel.  Blessed  be  the  Lord  who  can 
work  thus  admirably !  "  I  say  that  she  showed 
herself  so  gentle  and  so  full  of  all  pleasantness, 
that  those  who  looked  on  her  comprehended  in 
themselves  a  pure  and  sweet  delight,  such  as  they 
could  not  after  tell  in  words ;  nor  was  there  any 
who  might  look  upon  her  but  that  at  first  he  needs 
must  sigh.  These  and  more  admirable  things 
proceeded  from  her  admirably  and  with  power. 
Wherefore  I,  thinking  upon  this,  desiring  to  re- 
sume the  style  of  her  praise,  resolved  to  say  words 
in  which  I  would  set  forth  her  admirable  and 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  61 

excellent  influences,  to  the  end  that  not  only  those 
who  might  actually  behold  her,  but  also  others, 
should  know  of  her  whatever  words  coidd  tell. 
Then  I  devised  this  sonnet :  — 

So  gentle  and  so  gracious  doth  appear 
My  lady  when  she  giveth  her  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh,  trembling,  mute  ; 
Nor  do  the  eyes  to  look  upon  her  dare. 

Although  she  hears  her  praises,  she  doth  go 
Benignly  vested  with  humility  ; 
And  like  a  thing  come  down,  she  seems  to  be, 
From  heaven  to  earth,  a  miracle  to  show. 

So  pleaseth  she  whoever  cometh  nigh, 

She  gives  the  heart  a  sweetness  through  the  eyes, 
Which  none  can  understand  who  doth  not  prove. 

And  from  her  countenance  there  seems  to  move 
A  spirit  sweet  and  in  Love's  very  guise, 
Who  to  the  soul,  in  going,  sayeth  :  Sigh  ! 

This  sonnet  is  so  easy  of  understanding, 
through  that  which  has  been  told,  that  it  has  no 
need  of  any  division  ;  and  therefore,  leaving  it, 

XXVII. 

I  say  that  this  my  lady  reached  such  favor 
that  not  only  was  she  honored  and  praised,  but 
through  her  wrere  many  ladies  honored  and  praised. 
Wherefore  I,  seeing  this,  and  wishing  to  manifest 
it  to  whoever  saw  it  not,  resolved  further  to  say 


62  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

words  in  which  this  should  be  set  forth  ;  and  I 
devised  then  this  other  sonnet,  which  relates  how 
her  virtue  wrought  in  other  ladies :  — 

All  welfare  hath  he  perfectly  beheld 
Who  ainid  ladies  doth  rny  lady  see; 
And  they  who  go  with  her  are  all  compelled 
Grateful  to  God  for  this  fair  grace  to  be. 

Her  beauty  of  such  virtue  is  indeed, 
That  it  no  envy  doth  in  others  move  ; 
Rather  she  makes  them  with  her  to  proceed, 
Clothed  on  with  gentleness  and  faith  and  love. 

Her  sight  creates  in  all  humility, 

And  maketh  not  herself  to  please  alone, 
But  each  gains  honor  who  to  her  is  nigh. 

So  gentle  in  her  every  act  is  she, 

That  she  can  be  recalled  to  mind  by  none 
Who  doth  not,  in  Love's  very  sweetness,  sigh. 

This  sonnet  has  three,  parts  :  in  the  first,  I  tell 
among  what  people  this  lady  appeared  most  ad- 
mirable ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  how  gracious  was 
her  company ;  in  the  third,  I  tell  of  those  things 
which  she  wrought  with  poiuer  in  others.  The 
second  begins  here  :  "  And  they  who  go ; "  the 
third,  here  :  "  Her  beauty  of  such  virtue."  This 
last  part  is  divided  into  three  :  in  the  first,  I  tell 
that  which  she  lorought  in  ladies,  namely,  as  re- 
gards themselves  ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  that  which 
she  wrought  in  them  in  respect  to  others  ;  in  the 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  63 

third,  I  tell  how  she  wrought  not  only  in  ladies, 
but  in  all  persons,  and  how  she  marvellously 
wrought  not  only  in  presence,  but  also  in  memory. 
The  second  begins  here :  "  Her  sight ; "  the  third, 
here  :  "  So  gentle." 

XXVIII. 

After  this  I  began  to  think  one  day  upon  what 
I  had  said  of  my  lady,  that  is,  in  these  two  preced- 
ing sonnets  ;  and  seeing  in  my  thought  that  I  had 
not  spoken  of  that  which  at  the  present  time  she 
wrought  in  me,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  spoken 
defectively ;  and  therefore  I  resolved  to  say  words 
in  which  I  would  tell  how  I  seemed  to  myself  to 
be  disposed  to  her  influence,  and  how  her  virtue 
wrought  in  me.  And  not  believing  that  I  could 
relate  this  in  the  brevity  of  a  sonnet,  I  began  then 
a  canzone  which  begins  :  — 

So  long  hath  Love  retained  me  at  his  hest, 
And  to  his  sway  hath  so  accustomed  me, 
That  as  at  first  he  cruel  used  to  be, 
So  in  my  heart  he  now  doth  sweetly  rest. 
Thus  when  by  him  my  strength  is  dispossessed, 
So  that  the  spirits  seem  away  to  flee, 
My  frail  soul  feels  such  sweetness  verily, 
That  with  it  pallor  doth  my  face  invest. 
Then  Love  in  me  doth  with  such  power  prevail, 
He  makes  my  sighs  in  words  to  take  their  way  ; 
And  they  go  forth  to  pray 


64  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

My  lady  that  she  give  me  greater  hale. 

Where'er  she  sees  me,  this  to  me  occurs  ; 

Nor  can  it  be  believed  what  humbleness  is  hers. 


XXIX. 

Quomodo  sedet  sola  cii-itas  plena  populo  !  fact  a 
est  quasi  vidua  domina  gentium  [  How  doth  the 
city  sit  solitary,  that  was  full  of  people  !  How  is 
she  become  as  a  widow !  she  that  was  great  among 
the  nations]. 

I  was  yet  full  of  the  design  of  this  canzone,  and 
had  completed  this  above-written  stanza  thereof, 
when  the  Lord  of  Justice  called  this  most  gentle 
one  to  glory,  under  the  banner  of  that  holy  Queen 
Mary,  whose  name  was  ever  spoken  with  greatest 
reverence  by  this  blessed  Beatrice. 

And  although  perchance  it  might  be  pleasing, 
were  I  now  to  treat  somewhat  of  her  departure 
from  us,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  treat  of  it  here, 
for  three  reasons.  The  first  is,  that  it  is  no  part  of 
the  present  design,  if  we  consider  the  proem  which 
precedes  this  little  book.  The  second  is,  that, 
supposing  it  did  belong  to  the  present  design,  still 
my  pen  would  not  be  sufficient  to  treat  thereof  as 
were  meet.  The  third  is,  that,  supposing  both  the 
one  and  the  other,  it  is  not  becoming  in  me  to 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  65 

treat  thereof,  since,  in  so  doing,  it  would  be  need- 
ful for  rne  to  praise  myself,  —  a  thing  altogether 
blame  wo  rtliy  in  whosoever  does  it,  —  and  there- 
fore I  leave  this  theme  to  some  other  interpreter. 

Nevertheless,  since  the  number  nine  has  often 
found  place  among  the  preceding  words,  which  it 
seems  cannot  be  without  some  reason,  and  in  her 
departure  this  number  seems  to  have  occupied  a 
large  place,  it  is  befitting  to  say  something  on  this 
point,  inasmuch  as  it  seems  to  befit  my  design. 
Wherefore  I  will  first  tell  how  it  had  place  in  her 
departure,  and  then  I  will  assign  some  reason 
wherefore  this  number  was  so  friendly  to  her. 

XXX. 

I  say  that,  according  to  the  mode  of  reckoning  in 
Arabia,  her  most  noble  soul  departed  in  the  first 
hour  of  the  ninth  day  of  the  month ;  and,  accord- 
ing to  the  reckoning  in  Syria,  she  departed  in  the 
ninth  month  of  the  year,  since  the  first  month 
there  is  Tisrin,  which  with  us  is  October.  And 
according  to  our  reckoning,  she  departed  in  that 
year  of  our  indiction,  that  is,  of  the  years  of  the 
Lord,  in  which  the  perfect  number  was  completed 
for  the  ninth  time  in  that  century  in  which  she 
had  been  set  in  this  world :  and  she  was  of  the. 
Christians  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


66  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

One  reason  why  this  number  was  so  friendly  to 
her  may  be  this :  since,  according  to  Ptolemy  and 
according  to  the  Christian  truth,  there  are  nine 
heavens  which  move,  and,  according  to  the  common 
astrological  opinion,  the  said  heavens  work  effects 
here  below  according  to  their  respective  positions, 
this  number  was  her  friend  to  the  end  that  it  might 
be  understood  that  at  her  generation  all  the  nine 
movable  heavens  were  in  most  perfect  relation. 
This  is  one  reason  thereof  ;  but  considering  more 
subtilely  and  according  to  the  infallible  truth,  this 
number  was  she  herself ;  I  mean  by  similitude,  and 
I  intend  it  thus :  the  number  three  is  the  root  of 
nine,  for,  without  any  other  number,  multiplied  by 
itself  it  makes  nine,  as  we  see  plainly  that  three 
times  three  make  nine.  Therefore,  since  three  is 
the  factor  by  itself  of  nine,  and  the  Author  of 
miracles  by  himself  is  three,  namely,  Father,  Son, 
and  Holy  Spirit,  who  are  three  and  one,  this  lady 
was  accompanied  by  the  number  nine,  that  it 
might  be  understood  that  she  was  a  nine,  that  is, 
a  miracle,  whose  only  root  is  the  marvellous  Trin- 
ity. Perchance  even  a  more  subtile  reason  might 
be  seen  herein  by  a  more  subtile  person;  but 
this  is  that  which  I  see  for  it,  and  which  best 
pleases  me. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  67 

XXXI. 

After  the  most  gentle  lady  had  departed  from 
this  world,  all  the  above-mentioned  city  remained 
as  if  a  widow,  despoiled  of  every  dignity,  where- 
fore I,  still  weeping  in  this  desolate  city,  wrote 
to  the  chief  personages  of  the  land  somewhat  of  its 
condition,  taking  that  beginning  of  Jeremiah  the 
prophet,  Quomodo  sedet  sola  civitas  !  [  How  doth 
the  city  sit  solitary !  ]  And  this  I  tell  in  order 
that  others  may  not  wonder  why  I  have  cited  it 
above,  as  if  for  an  entrance  to  the  new  theme 
that  comes  after.  And  if  any  one  should  choose  to 
blame  me  because  I  do  not  write  here  the  words 
which  follow  those  cited,  my  excuse  is,  that  from 
the  first  it  was  my  design  to  write  nothing  except 
in  the  vulgar  tongue ;  wherefore,  since  the  words 
which  follow  those  which  have  been  cited  are  all 
Latin,  it  would  be  contrary  to  my  design  if  I 
should  write  them ;  and  I  know  that  he,  my  first 
friend,  for  whom  I  write  this,  had  a  similar  under- 
standing, namely,  that  I  should  write  to  him  only 
in  the  vulgar  tongue. 

XXXII. 

After  my  eyes  had  wept  for  some  time,  and 
were  so  wearied  that  I  could  not  give  vent  to  my 
sadness,  I  thought  to  try  to  give  vent  to  it  with  some 


68  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

words  of  grief ;  and  therefore  I  resolved  to  make 
a  canzone,  in  which,  lamenting,  I  would,  discourse 
of  her  for  whom  such  grief  was  wasting  my  soul ; 
and  I  began  then,  "  TJie  eyes  that  grieve"  etc. 

In  order  that  this  canzone  may  seem  to  remain 
the  more  a  widow  after  its  end,  I  will  divide  it 
before  I  ^vrite  it  out ;  and  this  mode  I  shall 
follow  henceforth.  I  say  that  this  poor  little 
canzone  has  three  parts :  the  first  is  the  proem  ; 
In  the  second,  I  discourse  of  her  ;  in  the  third, 
I  speak  pitifully  to  the  canzone.  The  second 
begins  here:  "To  the  high  heaven;"  the  third, 
here:  "Sad  song  of  mine."  The  first  is  divided 
into  three :  in  the  first,  I  tell  wherefore  I  am 
moved  to  speak ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  to  whom 
I  wish  to  speak  ;  in  the  third,  I  tell  of  whom  I 
wish  to  speak.  The  second  begins  here :  "  And 
since  I  do  remember."  The  third,  here:  "And 
then,  lamenting."  Then  ichen  I  say,  "  To  the  high 
heaven  hath  Beatrice  gone,"  /  discourse  of  her  ; 
and  of  this  I  make  two  _parte.  first,  I  tell  the 
reason  wherefore  she  was  taken  from  us  ;  then  I 
tell  how  others  mourn  her  departure;  and  this 
part  begins  here  :  "  Departed  from."  This  part 
is  divided  into  three:  in  the  first,  I  tell  who  does 
not  mourn  for  her ;  in  the  second,  I  tell  who 
mourns  for  her  ;  in  the  third,  I  tell  of  my  own 
condition.  TJie  second  begins  here :  "  But  he 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  69 

hath  grief  and  woe  ;  "  the  third,  "  Great  anguish." 
Then  when  I  say,  "  Sad  song  of  mine,"  /  speak 
to  this  my  canzone,  pointing  out  to  it  the  ladies  to 
whom  it  is  to  go,  and  with  whom  it  is  to  stay. 

The  eyes  that  grieve  with  pity  for  the  heart 
Have  of  their  weeping  borne  the  penalty, 
So  that  they  now  remain  as  if  subdued. 
Wherefore  if  I  would  to  the  grief  give  vent, 
Which  by  degrees  conducts  me  unto  death, 
Me  it  behoves  to  tell  my  woe  in  speech. 
And  since  I  do  remember  that  I  spoke 
Of  her,  my  lady,  while  she  was  alive, 
Ye  gentle  ladies,  willingly  with  you, 
I  will  not  speak  of  her, 
Save  only  to  a  lady's  gentle  heart. 
And  then,  lamenting,  I  will  tell  of  her, 
That  she  to  heaven  suddenly  hath  gone, 
And  hath  left  Love  behind  in  grief  with  me. 

To  the  high  heaven  hath  Beatrice  gone, 

Unto  that  realm  where  peace  the  angels  have, 

\nd  dwells  with  them  ;  you,  ladies,  hath  she  left. 

So  quality  of  cold  't  was  took  her  there, 

Nor  yet  of  heat,  such  as  affecteth  others, 

But  't  was  her  great  benignity  alone. 

Because  the  light  of  her  humility 

Passed  through  the  heavens  with  power  so  great, 

It  made  to  marvel  the  Eternal  Lord  ; 

So  that  a  sweet  desire 

Upon  Him  came  to  summon  such  salvation  ; 

And  from  below  lie  made  her  come  to  Him, 

Because  He  saw  that  this  distressful  life 

Unworthy  was  of  such  a  gentle  thing. 


70  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

Departed  from  her  person  beautiful, 
The  gentle  soul  replete  with  every  grace 
Now  dwelleth  glorious  in  a  fit  abode. 
Who  weeps  her  not  when  he  doth  speak  of  her 
Hath  heart  of  stone  so  vile  and  so  perverse 
Spirit  benign  can  never  enter  there. 
Nor  is  there  wit  so  high  of  villain  heart 
That  aught  concerning  her  it  can  conceive, 
Therefore  to  it  comes  not  the  wish  to  weep. 
But  he  hath  grief  and  woe, 
With  sighing  and  with  weeping  unto  death, 
And  of  all  comfort  is  his  soul  bereft, 
Who  sometimes  in  his  thought  consiclereth 
What  she  was,  and  how  from  us  she  is  taken. 

Great  anguish  do  my  sighs  give  unto  me, 
Whene'er  my  thought  unto  my  heavy  mind 
Dotli  bring  her  to  me  who  hath  cleft  my  heart. 
And  thinking  oftentimes  concerning  death, 
There  comes  to  me  so  sweet  desire  therefor 
That  it  transmutes  the  color  in  my  face. 
When  this  imagination  holds  me  fixed, 
Such  pain  assaileth  me  on  every  side, 
That  then  I  tremble  with  the  woe  I  feel  ; 
And  such  I  do  become 

That  from  the  people  shame  takes  me  away  : 
Then,  alone,  weeping,  I  lamenting  call 
On  Beatrice,  and  say  :  "  Art  thou,  then,  dead  ?  ': 
And  while  I  call  her  I  am  comforted. 

The  tears  of  grief,  and  sighs  of  agony, 
Lay  waste  my  heart  whene'er  I  am  alone, 
So  he  would  sorrow  for  it  who  might  see. 
And  what  indeed  my  life  hath  been  since  she, 
My  ladv,  to  the  new  world  went  away, 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  71 

No  tongue  there  is  that  could  know  how  to  tell. 
And  therefore,  ladies  mine,  e'en  though  I  wished, 
I  could  not  truly  tell  you  what  I  am. 
To  me  this  bitter  life  such  travail  brings, 
And  it  is  so  abased, 

That  every  man  vho  sees  my  deathlike  look 
Appears  to  me  to  say,  "  I  cast  thee  off." 
But  what  I  am,  that  doth  my  lady  see, 
And  thereof  I  yet  hope  reward  from  her. 
Sad  song  of  mine,  now  weeping  go  thy  way, 
And  find  again  the  dames  and  damosels 
To  whom  thy  sisters  all 
Were  wont  to  be  the  bearers  of  delight  ; 
And  thou  who  art  the  daughter  of  despair, 
Go  forth  disconsolate  to  dwell  with  them. 


XXXIII. 

After  this  canzone  was  devised,  there  came  to 
me  one  who,  according  to  the  degrees  of  friend- 
ship, was  my  friend  next  in  order  after  the  first ; 
and  he  was  so  near  in  blood  to  this  lady  in  glory 
that  there  was  none  nearer.  And  after  talking 
with  me,  he  prayed  me  to  write  for  him  something 
on  a  lady  who  was  dead  ;  and  he  dissembled  his 
words,  so  that  it  might  seem  that  he  was  speaking  of 
another  lady  who  had  lately  died ;  but  I,  aware 
that  he  spake  only  of  that  blessed  one,  told  him  I 
would  do  that  which  his  prayer  begged  of  me. 
Wherefore,  after  thinking  thereupon,  I  resolved  to 


72  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

make  a  sonnet  in  which  I  would  somewhat  bewail 
myself,  and  to  give  it  to  this  my  friend,  that  it 
might  seem  that  I  had  made  it  for  him ;  and  I  de- 
vised then  this  sonnet  which  begins :  "  To  hearken 
noiv,"  etc. 

This  sonnet  has  two  parts, :  in  the,  first,  I  call 
upon  the  liegemen  of  Love  to  hearken  to  me ; 
in  the  second,  I  describe  my  wretched  condi- 
tion. The  second  begins  here  :  "  Sighs  which  their 
way." 

To  hearken  now  unto  my  sighs  come  ye, 
O  gentle  hearts  !  for  pity  wills  it  so  ;  — 
Sighs,  which  their  way  disconsolately  go, 
And  were  they  not,  I  dead  of  grief  should  be  : 

Because  my  eyes  would  debtors  be  to  me 

For  vastly  more  than  they  could  ever  pay,  — - 

To  weep,  alas  !  my  lady  in  such  way, 

That,  weeping  her,  my  heart  relieved  might  be. 

Oft  you  shall  hear  them  calling  unto  her, 
My  gentle  lady,  who  from  us  is  gone 
Unto  the  world  deserving  of  her  worth  ; 

And  then,  in  scorn  of  this  life,  making  moan, 
As  though  the  grieving  soul  itself  they  were, 
Abandoned  by  its  welfare  upon  earth. 

XXXIV. 

After  I  had  devised  this  sonnet,  reflecting  who 
he  was  to  whom  I  intended  to  give  it  as  if  made 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  73 

for  him,  I  saw  that  the  service  appeared  to  me 
poor  and  bare  for  a  person  so  close  akin  to  this 
lady  in  glory.  And  therefore,  before  I  gave  him 
the  above-written  sonnet,  I  composed  two  stanzas 
of  a  canzone,  the  one  really  for  him,  and  the  other 
for  myself  ;  although  both  the  one  and  the  other 
may  appear  to  him  who  does  not  regard  subtilely 
as  if  written  for  one  person.  But  he  who  looks 
at  them  subtilely  sees  well  that  different  persons 
speak ;  in  that  the  one  does  not  call  her  his  lady, 
and  the  other  does  so,  as  is  plainly  apparent. 
This  canzone  and  this  sonnet  I  gave  to  him,  saying 
that  I  had  made  them  for  him  alone. 

The  canzone  begins,  "  As  often  as,"  and  has 
two  parts.  In  one,  that  is,i?i  the  first  stanza,  this 
my  dear  friend,  her  kinsman,  bewails  himself; 
in  the  other,  I  bewail  myself,  that  is,  in  the  sec- 
ond stanza,  which  bey  ins  "  And  there  is  intermin- 
gled." And  thus  it  appears  that  in  this  can- 
zone two  persons  bewail  themselves,  one  of  whom 
bewails  himself  as  a  brother,  the  other  as  a 
vassal. 

As  often  as,  alas  !  I  call  to  mind 
That  I  can  nevermore 
The  lady  see  for  whom  thus  sad  I  go, 
My  grieving  mind  doth  cause  so  great  a  grief 
To  gather  round  my  heart, 
I  say,  "  My  soul,  why  goest  thou  not  away, 


74  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

Seeing  the  torments  thou  wilt  have  to  bear, 
In  this  world  so  molestful  now  to  thee, 
Make  me  foreboding  with  a  heavy  fear  ?  " 
And  therefore  upon  Death 
I  call,  as  to  my  sweet  and  soft  repose, 
And  say,  "  Come  thou  to  me,"  with  such  desire 
That  I  am  envious  of  whoever  dies. 
And  there  is  intermingled  with  my  sighs 
A  sound  of  wofulness, 
Which  evermore  goes  calling  upon  Death. 
To  her  were  all  of  my  desires  turned 
When  that  the  lady  mine 
Was  overtaken  by  her  cruelty  ; 
Because  the  pleasure  of  her  beauteousuess, 
Taking  itself  away  from  out  our  sight, 
Became  a  spiritual  beauty  great, 
Which  through  the  heaven  spreads 
A  light  of  love  that  doth  the  angels  greet, 
And  makes  their  high  and  keen  intelligence 
To  marvel,  of  such  gentleness  is  she. 

XXXV. 

On  that  clay  on  which  the  year  was  complete 
since  this  lady  was  made  one  of  the  denizens  of 
life  eternal,  I  was  seated  in  a  place  where,  having 
her  in  mind,  I  was  drawing  an  angel  upon  certain 
tablets.  And  while  I  was  drawing  it,  I  turned 
my  eyes  and  saw  at  my  side  men  to  whom  it  was 
meet  to  do  honor.  They  were  looking  on  what  I 
did,  and,  as  was  afterwards  told  me,  they  had  been 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  75 

there  already  some  time  before  I  became  aware  of 
it.  When  I  saw  them  I  rose,  and,  saluting1  them, 
said,  "  Another  was  just  now  with  me,  and  on 
that  account  I  was  in  thought."  And  when  they 
had  gone  away,  I  returned  to  my  work,  namely, 
that  of  drawing  figures  of  angels  ;  and,  while  doing 
this,  a  thought  came  to  me  of  saying  words  in 
rhyme,  as  if  for  an  anniversary  poem  of  her,  and 
of  addressing  those  persons  who  had  come  to  me. 
And  I  devised  then  this  sonnet  that  begins,  "  The 
gentle  lady"  the  which  has  two  beginnings ;  and 
therefore  I  will  divide  it  according  to  one  and  the 
other. 

I  say  that,  according  to  the  first,  this  sonnet 
has  three  parts :  in  the  first,  I  tell  that  this  lady 
was  already  in  my  memory  ;  in  the  second,  I  tell 
what  Love  thereupon  did  to  me  ;  in  the  third,  1 
tell  of  the  effects  of  Love.  The  second  begins 
here:  "Love,  who;"  the  third,  here:  "Lament- 
ing they  from  out."  This  part  is  divided  into 
tivo :  in  the  one,  I  say  that  all  my  sighs  went 
forth  speaking  ;  in  the  other,  I  tell  hoio  some  said 
certain  words  different  from  the  others.  The 
second  begins  here  :  "  But  those."  In  this  same 
way  it  is  divided  according  to  the  other  beginning, 
except  that  in  the  first  part  I  tell  when  this  lady 
had  so  come  to  my  mind,  and  this  I  do  not  tell 
in  the  other. 


76  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

FIRST   BEGINNING. 

The  gentle  lady  to  my  mind  had  come, 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  her  exceeding  worth, 

Had  by  the  Lord  Most  High  been  ta'en  from  earth 

To  that  calm  heaven  where  Mary  hath  her  home. 

SECOND    BEGINNING. 

That  gentle  lady  to  my  mind  in  thought 

Had  come,  because  of  whom  Love's  tears  are  shed, 
Just  at  the  time  when,  by  her  influence  led, 
To  see  what  I  was  doing  ye  were  brought. 

Love,  who  within  my  mind  did  her  perceive, 
Was  wakened  up  within  my  wasted  heart, 
And  said  unto  my  sighs,  "  Go  forth  !  depart !  " 
Whereon  each  one  in  sorrow  took  its  leave. 

Lamenting  they  from  out  my  breast  did  go, 
And  uttering  a  voice  that  often  led 
The  grievous  tears  unto  my  saddened  eyes  ; 

But  those  which  issued  with  the  greatest  woe, 
"O  high  intelligence  !  "  they,  going,  said, 
"  To-day  makes  up  the  year  since  thou  to  heaven  didst 
rise." 

XXXVI. 

Some  time  afterwards,  happening  to  be  in  a 
place  where  I  was  reminded  of  the  past  time,  I 
stood  deep  in  thought,  and  with  such  doleful 
thoughts  that  they  made  me  exhibit  an  appearance 
of  terrible  distress.  Wherefore  I,  becoming  aware 
of  my  woe-begone  look,  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  see 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  11 

if  any  one  saw  me  ;  and  I  saw  a  gentle  lady,  young 
and  very  beautiful,  who  was  looking  at  me  from 
a  window  with  a  face  full  of  compassion,  so  that 
all  pity  seemed  gathered  in  it.  Wherefore,  since 
the  wretched,  when  they  see  the  compassion  of 
others  for  them,  are  the  more  readily  moved  to 
weep,  as  if  taking  pity  on  themselves,  I  then  felt 
my  eyes  begin  to  desire  to  weep ;  and  therefore, 
fearing  lest  I  might  display  my  abject  life,  I  de- 
parted from  before  the  eyes  of  this  gentle  one  ; 
and  I  said  then  within  me :  "  It  cannot  be  but  that 
with  that  compassionate  lady  should  be  a  most 
noble  love."  And  therefore  I  resolved  to  devise 
a  sonnet  in  which  I  would  speak  to  her,  and  would 
include  all  that  is  narrated  in  this  account.  And 
since  this  account  is  manifest  enough,  I  will  not 
divide  it. 

Mine  eyes  beheld  how  you  were  wont  to  show 
Great  pity  on  your  face,  what  time  your  sight 
Fell  on  the  actions  and  the  wretched  plight 
To  which  I  ofttimes  was  reduced  by  woe. 

Then  was  I  ware  that  you  did  meditate 
Upon  the  nature  of  my  darkened  years, 
So  that  within  my  heart  were  wakened  fears 
Lest  that  mine  eyes  should  show  my  low  estate. 

And  then  I  took  myself  from  you,  perceiving 
That  tears  from  out  my  heart  began  to  move, 
Which  by  your  look  had  been  thus  deeply  stirred. 

Thereon  iu  my  sad  soul  I  said  this  word : 


78  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

"  Ah  !  surely  with  that  Lady  is  that  love 
Which  maketh  me  to  go  about  thus  grieving." 


XXXVII. 

It  came  to  pass  afterwards  that,  wherever  this 
lady  saw  me,  she  became  of  a  compassionate  aspect 
and  of  a  pallid  color,  even  as  that  of  love  ;  where- 
fore I  was  often  reminded  of  my  most  noble  lady, 
who  had  ever  showed  herself  to  me  of  a  like  color. 
And  ofttimes,  in  truth,  not  being  able  to  weep, 
/ior  to  give  vent  to  my  sadness,  I  sought  to  see 
this  compassionate  lady,  who  seemed  by  her  look 
to  draw  the  tears  out  from  my  eyes.  And  there- 
fore the  will  came  to  me  furthermore  to  say  cer- 
tain words,  speaking  to  her ;  and  I  devised  this 
sonnet  which  begins,  "  Color  of  Love"  and  which 
is  plain  without  division,  through  the  preceding 
account. 

Color  of  Love  and  semblance  of  compassion 
Never  so  wondrously  possession  took 
Of  lady's  face,  through  turning  oft  her  look 
On  gentle  eyes  and  grievous  lamentation, 

As  now,  forsooth,  of  yours  they  do,  whene'er 

You  see  my  countenance  with  grief  o'erwronght  ; 
So  that  through  you  comes  something  to  my  thought 
Which,  lest  it  break  my  heart,  I  greatly  fear. 

I  have  no  power  to  keep  my  wasted  eyes 
From  looking  oft  on  you,  with  the  desire 
That  gaineth  them  to  let  their  tears  o'erflow. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  79 

And  you  increase  their  wish  in  such  a  wise 
That  with  the  longing  they  are  all  on  fire, 
But  how  to  weep  before  you  do  not  know. 


XXXVIII. 

I  was  brought  to  such  a  pass  by  the  sight  of 
this  lady,  that  my  eyes  began  to  delight  too  much 
in  seeing  her  ;  whereat  I  was  often  angry  with 
myself,  and  esteemed  myself  mean  enough.  And 
many  a  time  I  cursed  the  vanity  of  my  eyes,  and 
said  to  them  in  my  thought :  "  But  late  ye  were 
wont  to  make  those  weep  who  saw  your  sad  condi- 
tion, and  now  it  seems  that  ye  wish  to  forget  it  by 
reason  of  this  lady  who  looks  upon  you,  and  who 
does  not  look  upon  you  save  as  she  grieves  for 
the  lady  in  glory  for  whom  ye  are  wont  to  weep. 
But  whatever  ye  have  power  to  do,  do  ;  for,  ac- 
cursed eyes,  very  often  will  I  remind  you  of  her ; 
for  never,  except  after  death,  ought  your  tears  to  be 
stayed."  And  when  I  had  thus  spoken  within  me 
to  my  eyes,  very  deep  and  distressful  sighs  as- 
sailed me.  And  in  order  that  this  battle  which  I 
had  with  myself  might  not  remain  known  only  to 
the  wretched  one  who  experienced  it,  I  resolved  to 
make  a  sonnet,  and  to  include  in  it  this  horrible 
condition ;  and  I  devised  this  which  begins,  "  The 
bitter  tears.'1'1 


60  THE  NEW  LIFE, 

The  sonnet  has  two  parts:  in  the  first,  I  speak 
to  my  eyes  as  my  heart  spoke  within  me;  in  the 
second,  I  remove  a  difficulty,  showing  who  it  is 
that  thus  speaks ;  and  this  part  begins  here : 
"  Thus  saith."  It  might  indeed  receive  still  fur- 
ther divisions,  but  this  would  be  needless,  since  it 
is  clear  by  reason  of  the  preceding  account. 

The  bitter  tears  that  shed  by  you  have  been, 
Ye  eyes  of  mine,  so  long  a  season  now, 
Have  made  the  tears  of  other  folk  to  flow, 
Out  of  compassion,  as  yourselves  have  seen, 

That  you  would  this  forget,  it  now  appears, 
If  on  my  part  so  traitorous  I  should  be 
As  not  to  trouble  you  continually 
With  thought  of  her  to  whom  belong  your  tears. 

Your  vanity  doth  care  in  me  beget, 

And  so  alarms  me,  that  I  greatly  dread 
Sight  of  a  dame  who  on  you  turns  her  eyes. 

Never  should  you,  until  that  ye  be  dead, 
Our  gentle  lady  who  is  dead  forget  : 
Thus  saith  my  heart,  and  thereupon  it  sighs. 


XXXIX. 

The  sight  of  this  lady  brought  me  into  so  strange 
a  condition,  that  many  a  time  I  thought  of  her  as 
of  a  person  who  had  pleased  me  exceeding  much. 
And  I  thought  of  her  thus :  "  This  is  a  gentle, 
beautiful,  young,  and  discreet  lady,  and  she  has 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  81 

appeared  perchance  through  the  will  of  Love,  in 
order  that  my  life  may  find  repose."  And  often- 
times I  thought  more  lovingly,  so  that  my  heart 
consented  thereto,  that  is,  unto  its  reasoning. 
And  when  it  had  thus  consented,  I  took  thought 
again,  as  if  moved  by  the  reason,  and  I  said  to 
myself :  "  Ah  !  what  thought  is  this  which  in  so 
vile  a  way  seeks  to  console  me,  and  scarcely  leaves 
me  any  other  thought  ?  "  Then  another  thought 
rose  up  and  said  :  "  Now  that  thou  hast  been  in  so 
great  tribulation,  why  dost  thou  not  wish  to  with' 
draw  thyself  from  such  bitterness  ?  Thou  seest 
that  this  is  an  inspiration  which  brings  the  desires 
of  Love  before  us,  and  proceeds  from  a  place  no 
less  gentle  than  the  eyes  of  the  lady  who  has  shown 
herself  so  compassionate  unto  thee."  Wherefore 
I,  having  thus  ofttimes  been  at  strife  within  me, 
wished  anew  to  say  some  words  thereof ;  and  since, 
in  the  battle  of  the  thoughts,  those  had  conquered 
that  spoke  011  her  behalf,  it  seemed  to  me  befit- 
ting to  address  her,  and  I  devised  this  sonnet 
which  begins,  "  A  gentle  thought ; "  and  I  said 
gentle  inasmuch  as  I  was  speaking  to  a  gentle  lady, 
for  otherwise  it  was  most  vile. 

In  this  sonnet  I  make  two  parts  of  myself, 
according  as  my  thoughts  had  twofold  division. 
The  one  part  I  call  heart,  that  is,  the  appetite  ; 
the  other,  soul,  that  is,  the  reason  ;  and  I  tell  liow 


82  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

one  speaks  to  the  other.  And  that  it  is  fitting  to 
call  the  appetite  the  heart,  and  the  reason  the 
soul,  is  sufficiently  plain  to  those  to  whom  it 
pleases  me  that  this  should  be  disclosed.  It  is 
true  that  in  the  preceding  sonnet  I  take  the  part 
of  the  heart  against  the  eyes,  and  that  seems  con- 
trary to  what  I  say  in  the  present ;  and  therefore 
I  say  that  also  there  I  mean  by  the  heart  the  ap- 
petite, since  my  desire  still  to  remember  me  of 
my  most  gentle  lady  was  greater  than  to  see  this 
one,  although  I  had  had  truly  some  appetite  there- 
for, but  it  seemed  slight;  wherefore  it  appears 
that  the  one  saying  is  not  contrary  to  the  other. 

TJds  sonnet  has  three  parts :  in  the  first,  I  be- 
gin with  saying  to  this  lady  how  my  desire  turns 
wholly  toward  her ;  in  the  second,  I  say  how 
the  soul,  that  is,  the  reason,  speaks  to  the  heart, 
that  is,  to  the  appetite ;  in  the  third,  I  say  Tiow 
this  replies.  The  second  begins  here :  "  Who 
then  is  this  ? "  the  third,  here :  "  O  saddened 
soul!" 

A  gentle  thought  that  of  you  holds  discourse 
Cometh  now  frequently  with  me  to  dwell, 
And  with  such  sweetness  it  of  Love  doth  tell, 
My  heart  to  yield  unto  him  it  doth  force. 
"  Who  then  is  this,"  the  soul  saith  to  the  heart, 
"  Who  cometh  to  bring  comfort  to  our  mind, 
And  who  hath  virtue  of  so  potent  kind, 
That  other  thoughts  he  rnaketh  to  depart  ?  " 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  83 

"O  saddened  soul,"  the  heart  to  her  replies, 
"  This  is  a  little  spirit  fresh  from  Love, 
And  to  my  presence  his  desires  he  brings. 
His  very  life  and  all  his  influence  move 
From  out  of  the  compassionating  eyes 
Of  her  who  sorroweth  for  our  sufferings." 


XL. 

Against  this  adversary  of  the  reason  there  arose 
one  (lay,  about  the  hour  of  nones,  a  strong  imagi- 
nation within  me  ;  for  I  seemed  to  see  this  glorified 
Beatrice  in  those  crimson  garments  in  which  she 
had  first  appeared  to  my  eyes,  and  she  seemed  to 
me  young,  of  the  same  age  as  when  I  first  saw 
her.  Then  I  began  to  think  of  her ;  and  calling 
her  to  mind  according  to  the  order  of  the  past  time, 
my  heart  began  bitterly  to  repent  of  the  desire  by 
which  it  had  so  vilely  allowed  itself  for  some  days 
to  be  possessed,  contrary  to  the  constancy  of  the 
reason  :  and  this  so  wicked  desire  being  expelled, 
all  my  thoughts  returned  to  their  most  gentle  Bea- 
trice. And  I  say  that  thenceforth  I  began  to 
think  of  her  with  my  heart  so  all  ashamed,  that 
oftentimes  my  sighs  manifested  it ;  for  almost  all 
of  them  told,  as  they  went  forth,  that  which  was 
discoursed  of  in  my  heart,  to  wit,  the  name  of 
that  most  gentle  one,  and  how  she  had  departed 


84  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

from   us.     And  many  times  it  came  to  pass,  that 
some  one  thought  had  such  anguish  in  itself  that 
I   forgot  it  and  the  place  where  I  was.     By  this 
rekindling  of  sighs  my  tears  which  had  been  as- 
suaged were  rekindled  in  such  wise  that  my  eyes 
seemed   two  things  which   desired  only  to  weep ; 
and  often  it  happened  that  through  the  long  con- 
tinuance   of  weeping  there   came  a  purple    color 
around  them,  such  as  is  wont  to  appear  after  any 
torment  that  one  may  endure  ;  whence  it  seems 
that  they  were  worthily  rewarded  for  their  vanity, 
so  that  from  that  time  forward  they  could  not  gaze 
at  any  one  who  might  so  look  at  them  as  to  have 
power  to  draw  them  to  a  like  intention.     Where- 
fore I,  wishing  that  this  wicked  desire  and  vain 
temptation  should  be  seen  to  be  destroyed,  so  that 
the    rhymed    words  which    I   had   before   written 
should  give  rise  to  no  question,  resolved  to  make 
a  sonnet  in  which  I  would  include  the  purport  of 
this  account.     And  I  said  then,  "  Alas  !  hy  force." 
I  said  "Alas!"  inasmuch  as  I  was  ashamed 
that  my  eyes  had  so  r/one  astray  after  vanity.     I 
do  not  divide  this  sonnet,  for  its  meaning  is  suf- 
ficiently clear. 

Alas  !  by  force  of  sighs  that  oft  return, 

Springing  from  thoughts  which  are  within  my  heart, 
Mine  eyes  are  conquered,  and  have  lost  the  art 
To  look  at  one  whose  gaze  on  them  may  turn. 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  85 

And  they  are  such,  they  two  desires  appear, 
Only  to  weep,  and  sorrow  to  display  ; 
And  ofttiines  they  lament  in  such  a  way 
That  Love  gives  them  the  martyr's  crown  to  wear. 

These  thoughts  and  sighs  that  issue  with  my  breath, 
Become  within  my  heart  so  full  of  pain 
That  Love,  subdued  by  woe,  falls  senseless 

For  on  themselves  these  grieving  ones  do  bear 
That  sweet  name  of  my  Lady  written  plain, 
And  many  words  relating  to  her  death. 


XLL 

After  this  tribulation  it  came  to  pass,  at  that 
time  when  many  people  were  going  to  see  the 
blessed  image  which  Jesus  Christ  left  to  us  as  the 
likeness  of  his  most  beautiful  countenance,  which 
my  lady  in  glory  now  beholds,  that  certain  pil- 
grims were  passing  through  a  street  which  is  near 
the  middle  of  that  city  where  the  most  gentle  lady 
was  born,  lived,  and  died ;  and  they  were  going 
along,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  very  pensive.  Wherefore 
I,  thinking  on  them,  said  within  myself :  "  These 
seem  to  me  pilgrims  from  some  far-off  region, 
and  I  do  not  believe  that  they  have  even  heard 
speak  of  this  lady,  and  they  know  nothing  of  her  ; 
nay,  their  thoughts  are  rather  of  other  things  than 
of  these  here  ;  for  perchance  they  are  thinking  of 
their  distant  friends  whom  we  do  not 


86  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

Then  I  said  within  me :  "  I  know  that,  if  these 
were  from  a  neighboring  land,  they  would  show 
some  sign  of  trouble  as  they  pass  through  the 
midst  of  the  grieving  city."  Then  again  I  said 
within  me :  "  If  I  could  hold  them  awhile,  I  would 
indeed  make  them  weep  before  they  should  go  out 
from  this  city ;  since  I  would  say  words  which 
should  make  whoever  might  hear  them  weep." 

Wherefore,  they  having  passed  out  of  my  sight, 
I  resolved  to  make  a  sonnet  in  which  I  would  set 
forth  that  which  I  had  said  to  myself ;  and  in  or- 
der that  it  might  appear  more  piteous,  I  resolved 
to  say  it  as  if  I  had  spoken  to  them,  and  I  devised 
this  sonnet  which  begins,  "  O  pilgrims" 

I  said  pilgrims  in  the  wide  sense  of  the  ivord  : 
for  pilgrims  may  Ite  understood  in  two  senses,  in 
one  wide  and  in  one  narrow.  In  the  wide,  foras- 
much as  every  one  is  a  pilgrim  who  is  away  from 
his  native  land  ;  in  the  narrow  sense,  by  pilgrim 
is  meant  only  he  who  goes  to  or  returns  from  the 
House  of  St.  James.  And  further  it  is  to  be 
known  that  the  folk  who  journey  on  the  service  of 
the  Most  High  are  distinguished  by  three  terms. 
Those  who  go  beyond  the  sea,  whence  often  they 
bring  back  the  palm,  are  called  palmers  ;  those 
who  go  to  the  House  of  Galicia  are  called  pil- 
grims, because  the  burial-place  of  St.  James  was 
more  distant  from  his  country  than  that  of  any 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  87 

other  of  the  Apostles ;  and  those  are  called 
romers,  who  go  to  Rome,  ivhere  these  whom  I  call 
pilgrims  were  going. 

This    sonnet    is  not   divided,    because   it   suffi- 
ciently declares  its  own  meaning. 

O  pilgrims,  who  in  pensive  mood  move  slow, 
Thinking  perchance  of  those  who  absent  are, 
Say,  do  ye  come  from  folk  away  so  far 
As  your  appearance  seems  to  us  to  show  ? 

For  ye  weep  not  the  while  ye  forward  go 
Along  the  middle  of  the  mourning  town  ; 
Seeming  as  persons  who  have  nothing  known 
Concerning  the  sad  burden  of  her  woe. 

If,  through  your  will  to  hear,  awhile  ye  stay, 
Truly  my  heart  with  sighs  declares  to  me 
That  ye  shall  afterwards  depart  in  tears. 

Alas  !  her  Beatrice  now  lost  hath  she  ; 

And  all  the  words  that  one  of  her  may  say 
Have  virtue  to  make  weep  whoever  hears. 


XLIL 

After  this,  two  gentle  ladies  sent  to  ask  me  to 
send  to  them  some  of  these  rhymed  words  of  mine ; 
wherefore  I,  thinking  on  their  nobleness,  resolved 
to  send  to  them,  and  to  make  a  new  thing  which 
I  would  send  to  them  with  these,  in  order  that  1 
might  fulfill  their  prayers  with  the  more  honor. 
And  I  devised  then  a  sonnet  which  relates  my 


88  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

condition,  and  I  sent  it  to  them  accompanied  by 
the  preceding  sonnet,  and  by  another  which  be- 
gins, "  To  hearken  now."  The  sonnet  which  I 
made  then  is,  "  Beyond  the  sphere,"  etc. 

TJiis  sonnet  has  five  parts.  In  the  first,  I  say 
whither  my  thought  goes,  naming  it  by  the  name 
of  one  of  its  effects.  In  the  second,  I  say  where- 
fore it  goes  on  high,  namely,  who  makes  it  thus 
to  go.  In  the  third,  I  say  what  it  sees,  namely,  a 
lady  in  honor.  And  I  call  it  then  a  pilgrim 
spirit ;  sijice  spiritually  it  goes  on  high,  and  as 
a  pilgrim  who  is  out  of  his  own  country.  In  the 
fourth,  I  say  how  he  sees  her  such,  namely,  of 
such  quality,  that  I  cannot  understand  it ;  that  is 
to  say,  that  my  thought  rises  into  the  quality  of 
her  to  a  degree  that  my  understanding  cannot 
comprehend  it ;  since  our  understanding  is  in  re- 
gard to  those  blessed  souls  as  weak  as  our  eye  is 
before  the  sun ;  and  this  the  Philosopher  says  in 
the  second  book  of  his  Metaphysics.  In  the  fifth, 
I  say  that,  although  I  cannot  understand  there 
where  my  thought  transports  me,  namely,  to  her 
marvellous  quality,  at  least  I  understand  this, 
namely,  that  this  my  thought  is  wholly  of  my 
lady,  for  I  often  hear  her  name  in  my  thought. 
And  at  the  end  of  this  fifth  part  I  say  "  Ladies 
dear,"  to  indicate  that  it  is  to  ladies  that  I  speak. 
The  second  part  begins,  "  A  newr  Intelligence  ;  " 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  89 

the  third,  "When  at;"  the  fourth,  "He  sees 
her  such  ; "  the  fifth,  "  But  of  that  gentle  one."  It 
might  be  divided  still  mgre  subtilely,  and  its  mean- 
ing be  more  fully  set  forth,  but  it  can  pass  with 
this  division,  and  therefore  I  do  not  concern  my' 
self  to  divide  it  further. 

Beyond  the  sphere  that  widest  orbit  hath 

Passeth  the  sigh  which  issues  from  my  heart  : 

A  new  Intelligence  doth  Love  impart 

In  tears  to  him,  which  leads  him  on  his  path. 
When  at  the  wished-for  place  his  flight  he  stays, 

A  lady  he  beholds  in  honor  dight, 

Who  so  doth  shine  that  through  her  splendid  light 

The  pilgrim  spirit  upon  her  doth  gaze. 
He  sees  her  such  that  his  reporting  words 

To  me  are  dark,  his  speech  so  subtile  is 

Unto  the  grieving  heart  which  makes  him  tell. 
But  of  that  gentle  one  he  speaks,  I  wis, 

Since  oft  he  Beatrice's  name  records  ; 

Thus,  ladies  dear,  I  understand  him  well. 


XLIIL 

After  this  sonnet,  a  wonderful  vision  appeared 
to  me,  in  which  I  saw  things  which  made  me  re- 
solve to  speak  no  more  of  this  blessed  one,  until 
I  could  more  worthily  treat  of  her.  And  to  attain 
to  this,  I  study  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  as  she 
truly  knows.  So  that,  if  it  shall  please  Him 


90  THE  NEW  LIFE. 

through  whom  all  things  live,  that  my  life  be  pro- 
longed for  some  years,  I  hope  to  say  of  her  what 
was  never  said  of  any  woman. 

And  then  may  it  please  Him  who  is  the  Lord  of 
Grace,  that  my  soul  may  go  to  behold  the  glory 
of  its  lady,  namely,  of  that  blessed  Beatrice,  who 
in  glory  looks  upon  the  face  of  Him  qui  est  per 
omnia  scecula  benedictus  [who  is  blessed  forever]. 


ESSAYS. 


ESSAYS. 


I  HAVE  not  prefixed  to  my  translation  a  preface 
or  introduction,  preferring  to  let  the  little  book 
present  itself  to  the  reader  without  help  or  hin- 
drance. I  would  have  it  read  as  Dante  left  it.  In 
the  essays  and  notes  which  follow,  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  say  only  what  may  lead  to  the  appreciation 
of  it,  or  may  remove  difficulties  in  its  interpreta- 
tion. My  translation  was  made  when  I  was  a 
young  man,  almost  forty  years  ago ;  I  reprint  it 
now,  feeling  the  charm  of  the  original  no  less  in 
my  age  than  in  my  youth,  and  wishing  that  some- 
thing of  this  charm  may  be  felt  by  those  who  know 
the  New  Life  only  through  my  version. 

July,  1892. 

I. 

ON   THE   "NEW   LIFE." 

The  New  Life  is  the  proper  introduction  to  the  Di- 
vine Comedy.  It  is  the  story  of  the  beginning  of  the 
love  through  which,  even  in  Dante's  youth,  heavenly 
things  were  revealed  to  him,  and  which  in  the  bitterest 


94  ESSAYS. 

trials  of  life,  —  in  disappointment,  poverty,  and  exile, 
—  kept  his  heart  fresh  with  springs  of  perpetual  solace. 
It  was  this  love  which  led  him  through  the  hard  paths  of 
Philosophy  and  up  the  steep  ascents  of  Faith,  out  of 
Hell  and  through  Purgatory,  to  the  glories  of  Paradise 
and  the  fulfilment  of  Hope. 

The  narrative  of  the  New  Life  is  quaint,  embroidered 
with  conceits,  deficient  in  artistic  completeness,  but  it 
has  the  simplicity  of  youth,  the  charm  of  sincerity,  the 
freedom  of  personal  confidence ;  and  so  long  as  there 
are  lovers  in  the  world,  and  so  long  as  lovers  are  poets, 
this  first  and  tenderest  love-story  of  modern  literature 
will  be  read  with  appreciation  and  responsive  sym- 
pathy. 

It  is  the  earliest  of  Dante's  writings,  and  the  most 
autobiographic  of  them  in  form  and  intention.  In  it 
we  are  brought  into  intimate  personal  relations  with 
the  poet.  He  trusts  himself  to  us  with  full  and  free 
confidence ;  but  there  is  no  derogation  from  becoming 
manliness  in  his  confessions.  He  draws  the  picture 
of  a  portion  of  his  youth,  and  displays  its  secret  emo- 
tions ;  but  he  does  so  with  no  morbid  self-consciousness 
and  with  no  affectation.  Part  of  this  simplicity  is  due, 
undoubtedly,  to  the  character  of  the  times,  part  to  his 
own  youthfulness,  part  to  downright  faith  in  his  own 
genius.  It  was  the  fashion  for  poets  to  tell  of  their 
loves  ;  in  following  this  fashion,  he  not  only  gave  ut- 
terance to  genuine  feeling,  and  claimed  his  rank  among 
the  poets,  but  also  fixed  a  standard  by  which  the  ideal 
expression  of  love  was  thereafter  to  be  measured. 


ON   THE  NEW  LIFE.  95 

This  first  essay  of  his  poetic  powers  rests  on  the 
foundation  upon  which  his  later  life  was  built.  The  fig- 
ure of  Beatrice,  which  appears  veiled  under  the  symbol- 
ism and  indistinct  in  the  bright  halo  of  the  allegory  of 
the  Divine  Comedy,  takes  its  place  in  life  and  on  the 
earth  through  the  Neiv  Life  as  definitely  as  that  of  Dante 
himself.  She  is  no  allegorized  piece  of  humanity,  no 
impersonation  of  attributes,  but  an  actual  woman,  — 
beautiful,  modest,  gentle,  with  companions  only  less 
beautiful  than  herself,  —  the  most  delightful  personage 
in  the  daily  picturesque  life  of  Florence.  She  is  seen 
smiling  and  weeping,  walking  with  other  fair  maidens  in 
the  street,  praying  at  the  church,  merry  at  festivals, 
mourning  at  funerals  ;  and  her  smiles  and  tears,  her  gen- 
tleness, her  reserve,  all  the  sweet  qualities  of  her  life, 
and  the  peace  of  her  death,  are  told  of  witli  such  tender- 
ness, and  purity,  and  passion,  as  well  as  with  such  truth 
of  poetic  imagination,  that  she  remains,  and  will  always 
remain,  the  loveliest  and  most  womanly  woman  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  —  at  once  absolutely  real  and  truly  ideal. 

The  meaning  of  the  name  La  Vita  Nuova  has  been 
the  subject  of  animated  discussion  among  the  commenta- 
tors. Literally  The  New  Life,  it  has  been  questioned 
whether  this  phrase  meant  simply  early  life,  or  life  made 
new  by  the  first  experience  and  lasting  influence  of  love. 
The  latter  interpretation  seems  the  most  appropriate  to 
Dante's  turn  of  mind  and  to  his  condition  of  feeling  at 
the  time  when  the  little  book  appeared.  To  him  it  was 
the  record  of  that  life  which  the  presence  of  Beatrice 
had  made  new. 


96  ESSAYS. 

But  whatever  be  the  true  significance  of  the  title,  this 
Neiv  Life  is  full,  not  only  of  the  youthfulness  of  its 
author,  but  also  of  the  fresh  and  youthful  spirit  of  the 
time.  Italy,  after  a  long  period  of  childhood,  was  now 
becoming  possessed  of  the  powers  of  maturity.  Society 
(to  borrow  a  fine  figure  from  Lamennais),  like  a  river, 
which,  long  lost  in  marshes,  had  at  length  regained  its 
channel,  after  stagnating  for  centuries,  was  once  more 
rapidly  advancing.  Throughout  Italy  there  was  a  morn- 
ing freshness,  and  the  thrill  and  exhilaration  of  vig- 
orous activity.  Her  imagination  was  roused  by  the  re- 
vival of  ancient  and  now  new  learning,  by  the  stories  of 
travellers,  by  the  gains  of  commerce,  by  the  excitements 
of  religion  and  the  alarms  of  superstition.  She  was 
boastful,  jealous,  quarrelsome,  lavish,  magnificent,  full  of 
fickleness,  —  exhibiting  on  all  sides  the  exuberance,  the 
magnanimity,  the  folly  of  youth.  After  the  long  winter 
of  the  Dark  Ages,  spring  had  come  in  full  tide,  and  the 
earth  was  renewing  its  beauty.  And,  above  all  other 
cities  in  these  days,  Florence  overflowed  with  the  pride 
of  life.  Civil  brawls  had  not  yet  reduced  her  to  be- 
come an  easy  prey  for  foreign  conquerors  or  native 
tyrants.  She  was  famous  for  wealth,  and  her  spirit  had 
risen  with  prosperity.  Many  years  before,  one  of  the 
Provencal  Troubadours,  writing  to  his  friend  in  verse, 
had  said  :  "  Friend  Gaucelm,  if  you  go  to  Tuscany,  seek 
a  shelter  in  the  noble  city  of  the  Florentines,  which  is 
named  Florence.  There  all  true  valor  is  found  ;  there 
joy  and  song  and  love  are  perfect  and  adorned."  And 
if  this  was  true  in  the  earlier  years  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 


ON   THE  NEW  LIFE.  97 

tury,  it  was  still  truer  of  its  close ;  for  much  of  early 
simplicity  and  purity  of  manners  had  disappeared  before 
the  increasing  luxury  and  the  gathered  wealth  of  the 
city,  —  so  that  gayety  and  song  more  than  ever  abounded. 
"  It  is  to  be  noted,"  says  Giovanni  Villani,  writing  of  this 
time,  —  "  it  is  to  be  noted  that  Florence  and  her  citizens 
were  never  in  a  happier  condition."  The  chroniclers  tell 
of  constant  festivals  and  celebrations.  "  In  the  year  1283, 
in  the  month  of  June,  at  the  feast  of  St.  John,  the  city 
of  Florence  being  in  a  happy  and  good  state  of  repose,  — 
a  tranquil  and  peaceable  state,  excellent  for  merchants 
and  artificers,  —  there  was  formed  a  company  of  a  thou- 
sand men  or  more,  all  clothed  in  white  dresses,  with  a 
leader  called  the  Lord  of  Love,  who  devoted  themselves 
to  games  and  sports  and  dancing,  going  through  the  city 
with  trumpets  and  other  instruments  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness, and  feasting  often  together.  And  this  court  lasted 
for  two  months,  and  was  the  most  noble  and  famous 
that  ever  was  held  in  Florence  or  in  all  Tuscany,  and 
many  gentlemen  came  to  it,  and  many  jongleurs,  and  all 
were  welcomed  and  honorably  cared  for."  Every  year, 
the  summer  was  opened  with  May  and  June  festivals. 
Florence  was  rejoicing  in  abundance  and  beauty.  Nor 
was  it  only  in  passing  gayeties  that  the  cheerful  and 
liberal  temper  of  the  people  was  displayed. 

The  many  great  works  of  Art  which  were  begun  and 
carried  on  to  completion  at  this  time  show  with  what 
large  spirit  the  whole  city  was  inspired,  and  under  what 
strong  influences  of  public  feeling  the  early  life  of  Dante 
was  led.  Civil  liberty  and  strength  were  producing  their 


98  ESS  A  YS. 

legitimate  results.  Little  republic  as  she  was,  Florence 
was  great  enough  for  great  undertakings.  Never  was 
there  such  a  noble  activity  within  the  narrow  compass  of 
her  walls  as  from  about  1265,  when  Dante  was  born,  to 
the  end  of  the  century.  In  these  thirty-five  years  the 
stout  walls  and  the  tall  tower  of  the  Bargello  were  built ; 
the  grand  foundations  of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  and  of  the 
vast  Duomo  were  laid,  and  both  in  one  year ;  the  Baptis- 
tery —  il  mio  bel  San  Giovanni  —  was  adorned  with  a 
new  covering  of  marble ;  the  churches  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella  and  Santa  Croce  —  the  finest  churches  even  now 
in  Florence  —  were  begun  and  carried  far  on  to  comple- 
tion. Each  new  work  was  at  once  the  fruit  and  the  seed 
of  glorious  energy. 

It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  the  youthful  book  of 
one  so  sensitive  to  external  influences  as  Dante  did  not 
give  evidence  of  sympathy  with  such  pervading  emotion. 
Only  at  such  a  period,  when  strength  of  sentiment  was 
finding  vent  in  all  manner  of  free  expression,  was  such  a 
book  possible.  Confidence,  frankness,  directness  in  the 
rendering  of  personal  feeling,  are  rare,  except  in  con- 
ditions of  society  when  the  emotional  and  creative  spirit 
is  stronger  than  the  critical. 

The  most  marked  characteristics  of  art  at  this  time 
and  of  poetry,  as  represented  by  Dante,  were  an  asser- 
tion of  independence,  and  a  return  to  nature  as  the 
source  not  only  of  inspiration  but  of  truth.  The  estab- 
lished mannerisms  and  conventional  forms  which  had 
shackled  genius  and  restrained  imagination  yielded  to 
the  strong  impulse  of  vigorous  and  natural  life,  which 


ON   THE  NEW  LIFE.  99 

restored  truth  of  feeling  and  truth  of  expression  to  all 
the  arts,  and  opened  the  way  to  achievements  which  in 
spiritual  significance  and  in  beauty  of  design  have  never 
since  been  surpassed. 

The  Italian  poets,  before  Dante,  may  be  broadly 
divided  into  two  classes.  The  first  was  that  of  the 
troubadours,  who  wrote  in  the  Provencal  language,  and 
were  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  their  contempo- 
raries of  the  South  of  France.  They  gave  expression  in 
their  verses  to  the  ideas  of  love,  gallantry,  and  valor 
which  formed  the  base  of  the  complex  and  artificial 
system  of  chivalry,  repeating  one  after  the  other  the 
same  fancies  and  thoughts  in  similar  formulas,  without 
scope  or  truth  of  imagination,  with  rare  display  of  in- 
dividual feeling,  with  little  regard  for  nature.  Ingenu- 
ity is  more  characteristic  of  their  poetry  than  sincerity, 
subtilty  more  obvious  in  it  than  beauty.  The  second 
and  later  class  were  poets  who  wrote  in  the  Italian 
tongue,  but  still  under  the  influence  of  the  poetic  code 
which  had  governed  the  compositions  of  their  Provencal 
predecessors.  Their  poetry  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
faded  copy  of  an  unsubstantial  original,  —  an  echo  of 
sounds  originally  faint.  Truth  and  poetry  were  effec- 
tually divided.  In  the  latter  half  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, however,  a  few  poets  appeared  whose  verses  give 
evidence  of  some  native  life,  and  are  enlivened  by  a 
freer  play  of  fancy  and  a  greater  truthfulness  of  feeling. 
Guido  Guinicelli,  who  died  in  1276,  when  Dante  was 
eleven  years  old,  and,  a  little  later,  Guido  Cavalcanti, 


100  ESS  A  YS. 

and  some  few  others,  trusting  more  than  their  prede- 
cessors to  their  own  inspiration,  show  themselves  as  the 
forerunners  of  a  better  day.  But  as,  in  painting, 
Margaritone  and  Cimabue,  standing  between  the  old 
and  the  new  styles,  exhibit  rather  a  vague  striving  than 
a  fulfilled  attainment,  so  is  it  with  these  poets.  There 
is  little  that  is  distinctively  individual  in  their  sentiment 
or  in  the  expression  of  it.  Love  is  still  treated  mostly 
as  an  abstraction,  and  one  poet  might  adopt  another's 
love-verses  with  few  changes  of  form  so  far  as  any  man- 
ifest difference  of  personal  feeling  is  concerned. 

Not  so  with  Dante.  The  New  Life,  although  re- 
taining many  forms  and  expressions  derived  from  ear- 
lier poets,  is  his,  and  could  be  the  work  of  no  other. 
Nor  was  he  unaware  of  this  difference  between  himself 
and  those  that  had  gone  before  him,  or  ignorant  of  its 
nature.  Describing  himself  to  Buonagiunta  da  Lucca  in 
Purgatory,  he  says  :  — 

"'I  am  one,  who,  when  Love  inspires  me,  notes;  and  in  that 
measure  which  he  dictates  within,  I  go  revealing.'  '  O  brother, 
now  I  see,'  said  he,  '  the  knot  which  held  back  the  Notary  and 
Guittone  and  me  short  of  the  sweet  new  style  that  I  hear.  I  see 
clearly  how  your  pens  go  on  close  following  the  dictator,  which 
surely  befell  not  with  ours.  And  he  who  most  sets  himself  to 
look  further  sees  nothing  more  between  one  style  and  the  other.'  " 
(Purgatory,  xxiv.  55-62.) 

As  Love  was  the  common  theme  of  the  verses  from 
which  Buonagiunta  drew  his  contrast,  the  difference  be- 
tween them  lay  plainly  in  sincerity  of  feeling  and  truth 
of  expression.  The  following  closer  upon  the  dictates  of 


ON   THE  NEW  LIFE.  101 

his  heart  was  the  distinguishing  merit  of  Dante's  love 
poetry  over  all  that  had  preceded  it,  and  most  of  what 
has  come  after  it.  There  are,  however,  some  among  his 
earlier  poems  in  which  the  "sweet  new  style"  is  scarcely 
heard ;  and  others,  of  a  later  period,  in  which  the 
customary  metaphysical  and  fanciful  subtilties  of  the 
elder  poets  are  drawn  out  to  an  unwonted  fineness. 
These  were  concessions  to  a  ruling  mode,  —  concessions 
the  more  readily  made,  because  in  complete  harmony 
with  the  strong  subtilizing  and  allegorizing  tendencies  of 
Dante's  own  mind.  Still,  so  far  as  he  adopts  the  modes 
of  his  predecessors  in  this  first  book  of  his,  Dante  sur- 
passes them  all  in  their  own  way.  He  leaves  them  far 
behind  him,  and  already  sees  opening  before  him  new 
paths  which  he  is  to  tread  alone. 

But  there  is  yet  another  tendency  of  the  times,  to 
which  Dante,  in  his  later  works,  has  given  the  fullest 
and  most  characteristic  expression,  and  which  exhibits 
itself  curiously  in  the  New  Life.  Corresponding  with 
the  new  ardor  for  the  arts,  and  in  sympathy  with  it,  was 
a  newly  awakened  and  generally  diffused  ardor  for 
learning,  especially  for  the  various  branches  of  philo- 
sophy. Science  was  leaving  the  cloister,  in  which  she 
had  sat  in  dumb  solitude,  and  coming  out  into  the 
world.  But  the  limits  and  divisions  of  knowledge  were 
not  firmly  marked  out.  The  relations  of  learning  to 
truth  were  not  clearly  understood.  The  minds  of  men 
were,  indeed,  quickened  by  a  new  sense  of  freedom,  and 
stimulated  by  a  fresh  ardor  of  imagination.  New  worlds 
of  undiscovered  knowledge  loomed  vaguely  along  the 


102  ESSAYS. 

horizon.  Fancy  invaded  the  domain  of  philosophy  ;  and 
the  poets  disguised  the  subtleties  of  metaphysics  under 
the  garb  of  verses  of  love.  To  be  a  proper  poet  was 
not  only  to  be  a  writer  of  verses,  but  to  be  a  master  of 
learning.  Boccaccio  describes  Guido  Cavalcanti  as 
"  one  of  the  best  logicians  in  the  world,  and  a  most 
excellent  natural  philosopher,"  but  says  nothing  of  his 
poetry. 

Dante,  more  than  any  other  man  of  his  time,  exhib- 
ited in  himself  the  general  zeal  for  knowledge.  His 
genius  had  two  distinct  and  yet  often  intermingling 
parts,  —  the  poetic  and  the  scientific.  No  learning 
came  amiss  to  him.  He  was  born  a  student,  as  he  was 
born  a  poet :  and  had  he  never  written  a  single  poem, 
he  would  still  have  been  famous  as  the  most  profound 
scholar  of  his  times.  Far  as  he  surpassed  his  contem- 
poraries in  poetry,  he  was  also  their  superior  in  his 
mastery  of  the  knowledge  of  man  and  of  the  world. 
And  this  double  nature  of  his  genius  is  plainly  shown  in 
many  parts  of  the  New  Life.  A  youthful  incapacity  to 
draw  clearly  the  line  between  the  part  of  the  student 
and  the  part  of  the  poet  is  manifest  in  it.  The  display  of 
his  acquisitions  is  curiously  mingled  with  the  narrative 
of  his  emotions.  This  is  not  to  be  charged  against  him 
as  pedantry.  His  love  of  learning  partook  of  the  na- 
ture of  passion ;  his  judgment  was  not  yet  able,  if  indeed 
it  ever  became  able,  to  establish  a  strict  division  between 
the  abstractions  of  the  intellect  and  the  visions  of  the 
imagination.  And  more  than  this,  his  early  claim  of 
honor  as  a  poet,  especially  as  a  poet  in  the  vulgar  tongue, 


ON  THE  NEW  LIFE.  103 

was  to  be  justified  by  his  possession  and  exhibition  of 
the  fruits  of  study. 

Moreover,  the  mind  of  Dante  was  of  a  quality  which 
led  him  to  unite  learning  with  poetry  in  a  manner  pecu- 
liar to  himself.  He  was  essentially  a  mystic.  The 
obscure  and  hidden  side  of  things  was  not  less  present 
to  his  imagination  than  the  visible  and  plain.  The 
range  of  human  capacity  in  the  comprehension  of  the 
spiritual  world  was  not  then  marked  by  as  numerous 
boundary-stones  of  failure  as  now  define  the  way. 
Impossibilities  were  sought  for  with  the  same  confident 
hope  as  realities.  The  alchemists  and  the  astrologers 
believed  in  the  attainment  of  results  as  tangible  and  real 
as  the  gains  which  travellers  brought  back  from  the 
marvellous  and  still  unachieved  East.  The  mystical 
properties  of  numbers,  the  influence'  of  the  stars,  the 
powers  of  cordials  and  elixirs,  the  virtues  of  precious 
stones,  were  received  as  established  facts,  and  opened 
long  vistas  of  discovery  before  the  student's  eyes.  A 
ring  of  mystery  surrounded  the  familiar  world,  and  out- 
side the  known  lands  of  the  earth  lay  a  region  unknown 
except  to  the  fancy,  from  which  strange  gales  blew  and 
strange  clouds  floated  up.  Curiosity  and  inquiry  were 
stimulated  and  made  earnest  by  wonder.  Wild  and 
fanciful  speculations  formed  the  basis  of  serious  and 
patient  studies.  Dante,  partaking  to  the  full  in  the 
eager  spirit  of  the  times,  sharing  all  the  ardor  of  the 
pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  with  a  spiritual  insight  which 
led  him  into  regions  of  mystery  where  no  others  ven- 
tured, naturally  associated  the  knowledge  which  opened 


104  ESSAYS. 

the  way  for  him  with  the  poetic  imagination  which  cast 
light  upon  it.  To  him  science  was  but  the  handmaid  of 
poetry. 

Much  learning  has  been  expended  in  the  attempt  to 
show  that  the  doctrine  of  Love,  which  is  displayed  in 
the  New  Life,  is  derived,  more  or  less  directly,  from 
the  philosophy  of  Plato.  A  certain  Platonic  form  of  ex- 
pression, often  covering  ideas  very  far  removed  from 
those  of  Plato,  was  common  to  the  earlier,  colder,  and 
less  truthful  poets.  Some  strains  of  such  Platonism,  de- 
rived from  the  poems  of  his  predecessors,  are  perhaps  to 
be  found  in  this  first  book  of  Dante's.  But  there  is  no- 
thing to  show  that  he  had  intentionally  adopted  the  teach- 
ings of  the  ancient  philosopher.  It  may  well,  indeed, 
be  doubted  if,  at  the  time  of  its  composition,  he  had  read 
any  of  Plato's  works.  Such  Platonism  as  exists  in  the 
New  Life  was  of  that  unconscious  kind  which  is  shared 
by  every  youth  of  thoughtful  nature  and  sensitive  tem- 
perament, who  makes  of  his  beloved  a  type  and  image 
of  divine  beauty,  and  who  through  the  loveliness  of  the 
creature  is  led  up  to  the  perfection  of  the  Creator. 

The  essential  qualities  of  the  New  Life,  those  which 
afford  direct  illustration  of  Dante's  character,  as  distin- 
guished from  such  as  may  be  called  youthful,  or  merely 
literary,  or  biographical,  correspond  in  striking  measure 
with  those  of  the  Divine  Coined//.  The  earthly  Bea- 
trice is  exalted  to  the  heavenly  in  the  later  poem ;  but 
the  entire  purity  and  intensity  of  feeling  with  which  she 
is  reverently  regarded  in  the  Divine  Comedy  are  scarcely 
less  characteristic  of  the  earlier  work.  The  imagination 


ON   THE  NEW  LIFE.  105 

which  makes  the  unseen  seen,  and  the  unreal  real,  be- 
longs alike  to  the  one  and  to  the  ojher.  In  his  love  for 
the  living  Beatrice  Dante  had  already  foretasted  the  joys 
of  the  eternal  world.  Her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  good- 
ness, her  gentleness,  had  even  upon  earth  seemed  to  him 
divinely  excellent,  —  types  of  divine  realities.  His  im- 
agination had  beheld  a  miracle  in  her.  And  so  when 
he  exalts  her  in  the  Divine  Comedy,  —  her  who  had 
been  a  simple  Florentine  maiden,  —  when  by  virtue  of 
his  personal  faith  he  sets  her  in  glory  above  the  Saints, 
near  to  the  Most  Holy  Virgin  herself,  and  represents 
her  as  the  favored  one  of  the  Almighty,  —  he  is  but 
carrying  out  the  fervent  conceptions  of  his  New  Life  to 
their  required  and  true  conclusions.  In  this  was  Dante's 
poetic  power  fully  displayed,  and  in  this  was  the  depth, 
purity,  and  consistency  of  his  nature  revealed,  that  with- 
out incongruity,  without  any  jar  of  the  most  delicate 
harmonies  of  feeling,  he  could  transform  his  earthly  to 
a  heavenly  Love,  and  make  the  story  of  his  youth  the 
only  fit  introduction  to  a  poem  "  whose  subject  was 
man,"  and  whose  scene  was  laid  in  the  terrors  and  the 
glories  of  the  eternal  world. 

The  New  Life  is  chiefly  occupied  with  a  series  of 
visions ;  the  Divine  Comedy  is  one  long  vision.  The 
sympathy  with  the  spirit  and  impulses  of  the  time, 
which  in  the  first  reveals  the  youthful  impressibility  of 
the  poet,  in  the  last  discloses  itself  in  maturer  forms,  in 
more  personal  expressions.  In  the  Neiv  Life  it  is  a 
sympathy  mastering  the  natural  spirit ;  in  the  Divine 
Comedy  the  sympathy  is  controlled  by  the  force  of 


106  ESSAYS. 

established  character.  The  change  is  that  from  him 
who  follows  to  him  who  commands.  It  is  the  privilege 
of  men  of  genius,  not  only  to  give  more  than  others  to 
the  world,  but  also  to  receive  more  from  it.  Through 
sympathy  with  the  life  of  nature  and  of  man  they  enter 
into  possession  of  themselves.  Sympathy,  in  its  full 
comprehensiveness,  is  the  proof  and  measure  of  the 
strongest  individuality.  By  as  much  as  Dante  or 
Shakespeare  entered  into  and  learnt  of  the  hearts  of 
men,  by  so  much  was  his  own  nature  strengthened  and 
made  peculiarly  his  own.  The  New  Life  shows  the 
first  stages  of  that  sympathetic  genius,  and  gives  the 
first,  yet  clear  indications  of  that  profound  intelligence, 
which  find  their  full  manifestation  in  the  Divine  Com- 
edy. 

II. 

THE   CONVITO   AND   THE    VITA   NUOVA. 

THE  charm  of  apparent  simplicity  and  sincerity  in  the 
Vita  Nuova  is  so  great,  that  a  reader  may  feel  at  first  a 
certain  sense  of  regret,  as  he  gradually  discovers  that 
the  narrative,  while  professedly  the  record  of  actual  ex- 
perience, is  a  woi-k  of  poetic  art,  of  elaborate  and  highly 
artificial  structure,  in  which  the  story  is  ordered  not  in 
literal  conformity  with  fact,  but  according  to  an  ideal  of 
the  imagination  ;  and  that  its  reality  does  not  consist  in 
the  exactness  of  its  report  of  fact,  but  in  the  truth  of 
the  imaginative  conception  by  which  the  individual  ex- 
perience is  transmuted  from  prose  to  poetry.  Then  as 


THE  CONVITO  AND  THE   VITA  NUOVA.       107 

the  reader  grows  familiar  with  the  little  book  under  this 
aspect,  its  higher  worth  becomes  manifest  to  him,  and 
he  finds  in  it  a  deeper  interest  than  ever. 

But  he  has  another  discovery  to  make.  Underneath 
a  part  at  least  of  the  narrative,  which  appears  so  direct 
and  single  in  its  intention,  lies  concealed  a  studied  alle- 
gory. The  record  of  professed  fact  is  in  part  a  fiction 
invented  for  the  garb  of  an  inner  meaning,  of  which  the 
text  gives  no  hint,  and  which  would  hardly  have  been 
suspected,  certainly  never  truly  interpreted,  if  Dante 
himself  had  not  elsewhere  revealed  it. 

This  revelation  is  made  in  his  Convito  or  "  Banquet." 
The  Convito  is  an  unfinished  work  composed,  and  in 
great  part  written,  during  the  exile  of  the  poet.  Cer- 
tainly not  less,  probably  much  more,  than  ten  years  inter- 
vened between  its  composition  and  that  of  the  Vita, 
Nuova.  I  say  composition,  rather  than  writing,  for  it, 
like  the  New  Life,  is  made  up  of  poems  and  of  prose 
written  at  various  times,  but  brought  together  finally  in 
the  form  of  a  consecutive  work. 

The  Convito  derives  its  name  of  the  "  Banquet "  from 
its  main  design,  which  was  that  of  providing  instruction 
which  should  be  serviceable  in  the  conduct  of  life  for 
those  who  had  scant  opportunities  of  learning.  This 
Dante  proposed  to  do  by  means  of  a  series  of  treatises 
in  the  vulgar  tongue,  and  in  the  form  of  comments  upon 
canzoni  of  his  own,  which,  though  in  appearance  poems 
of  love,  were  in  reality  poems  of  morality  or  philosophy. 
The  method  admitted  of  wide  and  discursive  treatment 
of  multifarious  topics.  It  is  only  in  its  relation  to  the 
New  Life  that  the  Banquet  concerns  us  here. 


108  ESSAYS. 

Very  near  the  beginning,  in  the  first  chapter,  Dante 
says :  "  If  in  the  present  work,  which  is  called  the  Ban- 
quet, the  discourse  be  more  virile  than  that  of  the  New 
Life,  I  do  not  therefore  intend  to  discredit  the  latter  in 
any  respect,  but  much  more  to  confirm  that  work  by 
this,  seeing  how  reasonably  it  behoves  that  that  should 
be  fervid  and  impassioned,  this  temperate  and  virile. 
.  .  .  For  in  the  former  I  spoke  at  the  entrance  to 
my  youth,  in  the  latter  [I  speak],  youth  being  now  gone 

by." 

This  is,  I  believe,  the  only  direct  reference  to  the 
New  Life  in  the  first  treatise  or  book  of  the  Banquet ; 
so  that,  noting  only  this  intention  to  confirm  the  New 
Life,  we  pass  to  the  second  treatise,  which  is  composed 
of  the  canzone  beginning, 

"  Ye  who,  intelligent,  the  third  Heaven  move," 

and  of  the  comment  upon  it.  In  this  canzone  the  poet, 
addressing  the  Intelligences  of  the  Heaven  of  Venus, 
tells  them  of  the  state  to  which  he  has  been  reduced  by 
the  conflict  of  a  new  love  with  his  old.  It  deals  with 
those  conditions  and  experiences  of  the  poet  which  form 
the  subject  of  chapters  thirty-six  to  thirty-nine  of  the 
New  Life.  Because  of  its  close  relation  to  the  narra- 
tive in  those  chapters,  and  for  the  better  understanding 
of  what  follows,  I  give  a  translation  of  it. 

Ye  who.  intelligent,  the  third  Heaven  move,1 
List  to  the  talk  within  my  heart,  which  seems 

1 "  It  is  to  be  known  that  the  movers  of  the  Heavens  are  imma- 
terial existences,  namely  Intelligences,  whom  the  common  people 


THE  CONV1TO  AND   THE   VITA  NUOVA.       109 

So  strange  I  cannot  unto  others  tell  it. 

The  Heaven  which  doth  your  influence  obey, 

0  gentle  creatures,  as  indeed  ye  are, 

Draws  me  into  the  state  wherein  I  am  ; 

And  hence  it  seems  that  of  this  life  of  mine 

Speech  may  be  fittingly  addressed  to  you  ; 

Wherefore  I  pray  you,  that  ye  give  me  heed. 

To  you  will  I  declare  my  heart's  new  plight, 

How  the  sad  soul  within  it  doth  lament, 

And  how  a  spirit  counter  to  her  *  speaks, 

Which  cometh  through  the  radiance  of  your  star. 

Life  of  my  grieving  heart  was  wont  to  be 

A  thought  of  sweetness,  which  full  many  a  time 

To  your  Lord's  feet  2  betook  itself  away, 

Where  it  in  glory  did  a  Lady  see, 

Of  whom  so  sweetly  unto  me  it  spake, 

That  my  soul  said  :    "I  fain  would  thither  go." 

Now  appears  one  who  maketh  it  3  to  fly, 

And  lords  it  with  such  power  over  me, 

That  outwardly  my  heart  its  trembling  shows. 

He  makes  me  on  a  lady  turn  my  gaze, 

And  says  :   "  Let  him  who  wisheth  health  4  to  see 

Take  care  upon  this  lady's  eyes  to  look, 

Unless  he  fear  the  agony  of  sighs." 

He  finds  opposed,  so  that  he  slaughters  it, 

The  lowly  thought  which  used  to  speak  to  me 
About  an  Angel  who  in  Heaven  is  crowned. 
Then  weeps  the  soul,  so  grieveth  she  therefor, 
And  says  :   "  Oh  me,  alas !  since  now  is  fled 
This  piteous  thought  which  me  hath  comforted." 

call  Angels."  (ii.  5.)  "The  Divine  light  rays  out  immediately 
upon  the  Intelligences,  and  is  reflected  by  these  Intelligences 
upon  other  things."  (iii.  14.) 

1  Counter  to  the  soul.  2  To  the  feet  of  God. 

3  The  sweet  thought.  4  Salute,  health,  salvation. 


HO  ESSAYS. 

Then  of  my  eyes  this  troubled  one  J  doth  say : 
"  Woe  worth  the  hour  this  lady  looked  on  them ! 
Why  trusted  they  not  me  concerning  her  ? 
I  told  them  :    '  Truly  in  those  eyes  of  hers 
He  who  my  peers  doth  slay  must  have  his  stand,,5 
And  thus  to  warn  them,  did  avail  me  naught, 
But  they  would  look  on  her,  and  I  am  slain." 
"  Thou  art  not  slain,  but  thou  bewildered  art, 

0  soul  of  mine,  that  thus  lamentest  thee," 
Says  then  a  gentle  little  sprite  of  love  ; 

"  For  this  fair  lady,  who  affects  thee  thus, 
Hath  in  so  great  degree  transformed  thy  life, 
That  thou  hast  fear,  so  mean  art  thou  become. 
But  look  how  modest  and  how  kind  is  she, 
And  in  her  greatness  wise  and  courteous  ; 
And  her  thy  lady  think  henceforth  to  call : 
For,  if  thyself  thou  cheatest  not,  thou  'It  see 
Adornment  of  such  lofty  miracles, 
That  thereon  thou  wilt  say  :   '  0  Love,  true  Lord> 
Behold  thy  handmaid ;   do  what  pleaseth  thee.'  " 
Canzone,  I  believe  there  will  be  few 

Who  clearly  do  thy  meaning  understand, 
Thy  speech  so  toilsome  is  and  hard  to  them. 
Wherefore,  if,  peradventure,  it  should  hap 
That  thou  in  presence  of  such  persons  come 
As  seem  to  thee  not  well  acquaint  with  it,2 

1  pray  thee  then,  beloved  new  song  of  mine, 
Have  comfort  in  thyself  and  say  to  them  : 

"  Take  heed,  at  least,  how  beautiful  I  am." 

Dante  begins  his  comment  upon  this  canzone  by  say- 
ing that  certain  writings  are  to  be  understood  in  four 
senses,  and  may  require   an  exposition  according  to  each 
sense.     The  first  is  the  literal  meaning ;  the   second  is 
1  The  soul.  2  With  thy  meaning. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE   VITA  NUOVA.       Ill 

the  allegorical  or  real,  though  hidden  significance  ;  the 
third  is  the  moral,  that  is,  their  meaning  in  its  practical 
application  to  life  ;  the  fourth  is  the  anagogical  or  super- 
sensual  significance,  by  which  things  true  in  a  literal 
sense  are  shown  to  have  also  truth  in  regard  to  the  su- 
pernal things  of  eternal  glory,  as  when  the  prophet  says 
that,  in  the  coming  out  of  the  people  of  Israel  from 
Egypt,  Judea  was  made  holy  and  free,  which,  manifestly 
true  according  to  the  letter,  is  not  less  true  if  spiritually 
understood  of  the  coming  out  of  the  soul  from  sin,  by 
which  it  is  made  free  and  holy. 

The  exposition  of  the  literal  meaning  should  precede 
that  of  the  other  meanings,  and  Dante  goes  on  to  set 
forth,  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  Treatise,  the  literal 
meaning  of  the  canzone,  as  follows  :  "  Beginning  there- 
fore I  say,  that  after  the  death  of  that  blessed  Beatrice, 
who  lives  in  Heaven  with  the  Angels,  and  on  earth  with 
my  soul,  the  star  of  Venus  had  twice  revolved  in  that 
circle  which  makes  it  appear  as  evening  and  as  morning 
star,  according  to  the  two  different  seasons,  when  that 
gentle  lady  of  whom  I  made  mention  toward  the  end 
of  the  New  Life,  first  appeared  before  my  eyes  accom- 
panied by  Love,  and  took  some  place  in  my  mind.1 

1  The  date  of  the  first  appearance  of  "the  gentle  lady,''  though 
seemingly  fixed  by  this  statement,  is  uncertain,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  one  of  the  terms  used  by  Dante  to  define  it  admits  of  two 
different  interpretations.  The  revolution  of  the  star  of  Venus  in 
that  circle  which  makes  her  appear  as  evening  and  as  morning 
star,  may  mean,  according  to  the  Ptolemaic  system,  her  revolu- 
tion in  her  epicycle  relatively  to  a  fixed  direction,  which  is  com- 
pleted in  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  days ;  or,  it  may  mean 


112  ESSAYS. 

"  And  as  I  have  told  in  the  aforesaid  little  book,  it 
came  to  pass  more  through  her  gentleness  than  by  my 
own  choice,  that  I  yielded  myself  to  her ;  for  she  showed 
herself  filled  with  such  compassion  for  my  widowed  life, 
that  the  spirits  of  my  eyes  became  altogether  fi'iendly 
to  her,  and  they  presented  her  in  such  wise  within  me 

' '  her  revolution  relatively  to  the  line  passing  through  the  earth 
to  the  centre  of  the  epicycle,"  —  a  revolution  accomplished  in  five 
hundred  and  fifty-four  days,  in  which  she  returns  to  the  same 
position  in  regard  to  the  sun  as  that  from  which  she  started. 
According  as  we  assume  one  or  the  other  period,  the  date  of  the 
appearance  of  the  gentle  lady,  at  the  end  of  two  revolutions  of 
Venus,  would  he  either  fifteen  months  or  very  nearly  thirty-nine 
months  after  the  death  of  Beatrice. 

If  one  or  the  other  of  these  periods  could  he  determined  as  the 
correct  interval  between  the  death  of  Beatrice  and  the  appearance 
of  the  compassionate  lady,  it  would  help  to  fix  the  approximate 
date  of  the  compiling  of  the  Vita  Nuova.  This  would  he  of  in- 
terest in  Dante's  external  biography,  but  it  is  of  slight  importance 
so  far  as  his  spiritual  biography  is  concerned.  For,  as  regards  the 
essential  experience  and  development  of  his  spiritual  and  intel- 
lectual nature,  it  is  of  little  consequence  whether  the  New  Life 
were  compiled  early  or  late  in  the  last  ten  years  of  the  thirteenth 
century. 

The  subject  has  been  ably  discussed  by  Professor  George  R. 
Carpenter  in  a  scholarly  and  excellent  essay  on  the  "  Donna 
Pietosa  "  printed  with  the  Eighth  Annual  Report  of  the  Dante 
Society,  Cambridge  (Mass.),  1880.  Mr.  Carpenter  inclines  to  adopt 
the  shorter  revolution  of  Venus  as  that  intended  by  Dante. 

I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity,  which  the  mention  of  this  essay 
of  Mr.  Carpenter's  affords  to  me,  of  expressing  my  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment to  him  for  giving  me  the  benefit  of  his  learning 
and  taste  in  the  revision  of  the  proof-sheets  of  my  translation  of 
the  Divine  Comedy. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE   VITA  NUOVA.       113 

that  my  will  was  freely  content  to  unite  itself  unto  that 
image.  But  since  love  does  not  spring  up  and  grow 
great  and  become  perfect  all  at  once,  but  requires 
some  time  and  the  nourishment  of  thoughts,  especially 
in  case  of  the  existence  of  contrary  thoughts  which 
hinder  it,  it  could  not  but  be  that,  before  this  new  love 
could  become  perfect,  there  should  be  many  a  battle  be- 
tween the  thought  which  nourished  it  and  that  which 
was  opposed  to  it,  which,  through  that  glorified  Beatrice, 
still  held  the  citadel  of  my  mind.  For  the  one  was  con- 
tinually succored  from  in  front  by  means  of  my  eyes, 
and  the  other  from  behind  by  means  of  my  memory  ; 
and  that  which  was  succored  from  in  front  increased 
every  day,  which  was  impossible  for  the  other  opposed 
to  it,  and  in  some  measure  hindered  by  it  from  turning 
back  its  look. 

"  Wherefore  this  appeared  to  me  so  wonderful  and  also 
hard  to  bear,  that  I  could  not  endure  it,  and,  crying  out 
as  it  were,  in  order  to  excuse  myself  for  what  seemed 
to  me  the  lack  of  fortitude,  I  addressed  my  voice  to  that 
quarter  whence  was  proceeding  the  victory  of  the  new 
thought,  which  was  most  powerful,  as  of  celestial  power, 
and  I  began  to  say  :  '  Ye,  who,  intelligent,  the  third 
heaven  move.''  " 

Here  Dante  breaks  off  his  narrative,  in  order  to  pro- 
ceed with  the  literal  exposition  of  the  canzone,  which, 
with  various  digressions,  occupies  many  chapters.  He 
explains  that  he  made  his  appeal  to  the  Angelic  Intelli- 
gences of  the  third  Heaven,  the  Heaven  of  Venus,  be- 
cause they  who,  in  the  order  of  the  Heavenly  Hierarchy, 


114  ESSAYS. 

are  the  Thrones,  deriving  their  nature  from  the  Love  of 
the  Holy  Spirit,  work  in  accordance  with  it  in  the  revo- 
lution of  that  Heaven  which  is  filled  with  Love.  In 
this  revolution  the  Heaven  acquires  a  powerful  glow  by 
which  the  souls  on  earth  are  kindled  to  love,  according 
to  their  respective  dispositions,  (ii.  6.) 

But  his  canzone  exhibits  the  contention  of  two  loves 
within  his  heart,  "  and  some  one  may  say  :  '  Since  love 
is  the  effect  of  these  Intelligences,  and  that  first  love  of 
thine  was  love,  even  as  this  later  was  love,  how  is  it  that 
their  power  destroys  the  one  and  generates  the  other ; 
seeing  that  it  ought  to  save  the  former  love,  for  the  rea- 
son that  every  cause  loves  its  effect,  and,  loving,  saves 
it  ?  '  To  this  question  the  answer  is  easy.  The  effect 
wrought  by  these  Intelligences  is,  indeed,  Love,  as  has 
been  said  ;  but  since  they  can  save  it  only  in  those  who 
are  subject  to  their  circulation,1  they  transfer  it  from 
an  existence  which  lies  outside  of  their  power,  to  one 
which  lies  within  it ;  namely,  from  the  soul  departed 
from  this  life  to  that  which  still  dwells  here." 

It  is  thus  that  Dante  accounts  for  the  transference 
of  his  love  from  Beatrice  to  another  object  of  love. 
Beatrice  had  gone  to  the  immortal  world,  far  above 
the  influence  of  the  Intelligences  of  the  third  Heaven. 
"  But,"  he  continues,  "  inasmuch  as  the  immortality  of 
the  soul  is  here  touched  upon,  I  will  make  a  digression, 
that  I  may  discourse  of  it ;  for  discourse  of  it  will  be  a 
fair  close  to  speech  concerning  that  living,  blessed  Bea- 
trice of  whom  I  do  not  propose  to  speak  further  in  this 
1  That  is,  subject  to  the  influence  of  the  sphere  which  they  revolve. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE  VITA  NUOVA.       115 

book."  The  digression  ends  with  the  following  words  : 
"  And  I  believe,  and  affirm,  and  am  sure  that  I  shall  go 
to  another  better  world  after  this,  where  that  lady  lives 
in  glory,  with  whom  my  mind  was  enamored  when  it 
had  the  battle."  (ii.  9.) 

So  far,  then,  the  narrative  in  the  Banquet  conforms  in 
the  main  with  that  of  the  New  Life.  But  now,  having 
completed  the  literal  exposition  of  the  canzone,  Dante 
proceeds  to  the  "  allegoric  and  true  interpretation." 

"  And  therefore,  beginning  again  at  the  beginning, 
I  say,  that  when  the  first  delight  of  my  soul  was  lost, 
of  which  mention  has  already  been  made,  I  remained 
pierced  with  such  affliction  that  no  comfort  availed  me. 
Nevertheless,  after  some  time,  my  mind,  which  was 
endeavoring  to  heal  itself,  undertook,  since  neither  my 
own  nor  others'  consoling  availed,  to  turn  to  the  mode 
which  other  comfortless  ones  had  adopted  for  their  con- 
solation. And  I  set  myself  to  reading  that  book  of 
Boethius,  not  known  to  many,  in  which  he,  a  prisoner 
and  an  exile,  had  consoled  himself.  And  hearing, 
moreover,  that  Tully  had  written  a  book  in  which,  treat- 
ing of  friendship,  he  had  introduced  words  of  consola- 
tion for  Laelius,  a  most  excellent  man,  on  the  death  of 
Scipio  his  friend,  I  set  myself  to  read  that.  And  al- 
though it  was  difficult  for  me  at  first  to  enter  into  their 
meaning,  I  finally  entered  into  it,  so  far  as  my  know- 
ledge of  Latin  and  a  little  of  my  own  genius  permitted ; 
through  which  genius  I  already,  as  if  in  dream,  saw 
many  things,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  New  Life.  And  as 
it  sometimes  happens  that  a  man  goes  seeking  silver,  and, 


116  ESSAYS. 

b  yond  his  expectation,  finds  gold,  which  a  hidden  occa- 
sion affords,  not  perchance  without  divine  guidance,  so 
I,  who  was  seeking  to  console  myself,  found  not  only 
relief  for  ray  tears,  but  words  of  authors,  and  of 
knowledge,  and  of  books ;  reflecting  upon  which,  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  Philosophy,  who  was  the  lady  *  of 
these  authors,  this  knowledge,  and  these  books,  was  a 
supreme  thing.  And  I  imagined  her  as  having  the  fea- 
tures of  a  gentle  lady  ;  and  I  could  not  imagine  her  in 
any  but  a  compassionate  act,  wherefore  my  sense  so 
willingly  admired  her  in  truth,  that  I  could  hardly  turn 
it  from  her.  And  after  this  imagination  I  began  to  go 
there  where  she  displayed  herself  truly,  that  is  to  say,  to 
the  school  of  the  religious,  and  to  the  disputations  of  the 
philosophers,  so  that  in  a  short  time,  perhaps  in  thirty 
months,  I  began  to  feel  so  much  of  her  sweetness  that 
the  love  of  her  chased  away  and  destroyed  every  other 
thought.  Wherefore  I,  feeling  myself  lifted  from  the 
thought  of  my  first  love  to  the  virtue  of  this,  wondering 
as  it  were  in  myself,  opened  my  mouth  in  the  utterance 
of  the  preceding  canzone,  showing  my  condition  under 
the  figure  of  other  things ;  because,  to  speak  openly  of 
the  lady  of  whom  I  was  enamored,  no  rhyme  of  any 
vulgar  tongue  was  worthy,2  nor  were  the  hearers  so 

1  That  is,  the  object  to  which  they  were  devoted. 

2  Verse   in   the   vulgar  tongiie  had   been  so  appropriated   to 
themes  of  love,  that  it  was  not  worthy  to  discourse  openly  of 
higher  matters.     They  must  be  concealed,  as  in  an  allegory,  under 
the  form  of  verses  which  seemed  literally  to  treat  of  matters  of 
love. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE  VITA  NUOVA.       117 

well  disposed  that  they  would  have  so  easily  appre- 
hended words  not  fictitious,1  nor  would  they  have  given 
credence  to  the  true  meaning  as  to  the  fictitious ;  be- 
cause in  truth  it  was  the  common  belief  that  I  was  de- 
voted to  the  former  love,  and  there  was  no  such  belief 
in  regard  to  the  latter.  I  began,  therefore,  with  say- 
ing* — 

Ye  who,  intelligent,  move  the  third  heaven. 

And  because,  as  has  been  said,  this  lady  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  God,  queen  of  all  things,  the  most  noble  and  most 
beautiful  Philosophy,  it  is  now  for  us  to  see  who  these 
movers  were,  and  what  was  this  third  heaven."  (ii.  13.) 
In  the  next  chapter  Dante  says  that  by  "  Heaven " 
he  means  knowledge,  and  by  "  the  Heavens  "  the  various 
sciences,  or  branches  of  knowledge.  "  To  the  seven 
first  heavens  (those  of  the  planets)  correspond  the  seven 
sciences  of  the  Trivium  and  of  the  Quadrivium,  namely, 
Grammar,  Dialectics,  Rhetoric,  Arithmetic,  Music,  Geo- 
metry, and  Astrology.  To  the  eighth  sphere,  that  is,  to 
the  sphere  of  the  fixed  stars,  corresponds  the  science  of 
Nature,  which  is  called  Physics,  and  the  first  science," 
which  is  called  Metaphysics,  and  to  the  ninth  sphere 
[the  crystalline]  corresponds  Moral  science,  and  to  the 

1  That  is,  they  would  not  so  readily  have  taken  to  and  under- 
stood a    poem    openly   about   Philosophy,  as   they  would  one   in 
which  the   true  philosophic   sense  was   concealed   under  an   alle- 
gory of  love. 

2  The  "  first  science,"  as   dealing  with  the   primal  substances 
or  existences,  which,  immaterial,  incorruptible,  and  not  objects  of 
sense,  are  to  be  known  only  through  their  effects. 


118  ESSAYS. 

quiet  heaven  [the   Empyrean]  corresponds   Divine  sci- 
ence, which  is  called  Theology." 

Dante  goes  on  to  set  forth  this  correspondence  hy 
fanciful  analogies.  There  is  much  in  his  treatment  of 
the  subject  which  is  of  interest  as  showing  his  concep- 
tion of  the  order  and  progress  of  knowledge  leading  up 
to  moral  philosophy,  "  which  disposes  us  for  the  other 
branches  of  knowledge,"  while  last  in  the  series,  the 
source  and  the  end  of  all,  is  "  the  Divine  science,  which 
is  full  of  all  peace,  and  will  not  endure  any  strife  of 
opinions  or  of  sophistical  arguments,  because  of  the  most 
excellent  certitude  of  its  subject,  which  is  God."  This 
alone  is  perfect  knowledge,  "  because  it  makes  us  see 
perfectly  the  Truth  in  which  our  souls  repose."  (ii.  15.) 

Now  the  canzone  on  which  Dante  is  commenting  is 
addressed  to  the  Intelligences  who  move  the  third  hea- 
ven, the  heaven  of  Venus,  the  heaven  to  which  Rhetoric 
corresponds,  because  Rhetoric  is  the  sweetest  of  all  sci- 
ences, its  object  being  to  delight  and  to  persuade.  And 
according  to  the  allegory,  the  movers  of  this  heaven  are 
the  masters  of  Rhetoric,  such  as  Boethius  and  Tully, 
"  who  by  the  sweetness  of  their  speech  directed  me 
along  the  way,  as  has  already  been  told,  into  the  love, 
that  is,  into  the  study  of  this  most  gentle  Lady  Phi- 
losophy, with  the  radiance  of  their  star,  which  is  what  is 
written  of  her.  For  in  every  science  the  writing  is  a 
star,  full  of  light,  which  demonstrates  that  science. 
And  now,  this  being  made  clear,  the  true  meaning  of 
the  first  stanza  of  the  above  canzone  can  be  seen  by 
means  of  the  fictitious  and  literal  interpretation.  The 


THE  CONVITO  AND  THE  VITA  NUOVA.       119 

second  stanza  is  sufficiently  intelligible  to  where  it  says, 
He  maketh  me  upon  a  lady  look  ;  where  it  is  to  be 
known  that  this  lady  is  Philosophy,  which  truly  is  a 
lady  full  of  sweetness,  adorned  with  dignity,  marvel- 
lous in  knowledge,  glorious  in  liberty,  as  will  be  shown 
in  the  third  Treatise,  in  which  her  nobility  is  to  be 
treated  of.  And  where  it  says  :  Let  him  who  ivisheth 
health  to  see,  Take  care  upon  this  lady's  eyes  to  look, 
the  eyes  of  this  lady  are  her  demonstrations,  which, 
directed  upon  the  eyes  of  the  understanding,  enamor 
the  soul,  made  free  in  its  conditions.  Oh,  ye  sweetest 
and  ineffable  looks,  sudden  ravishers  of  the  human  mind, 
which  appear  in  the  eyes  of  Philosophy  when  she  dis- 
courses with  her  lovers  !  truly  in  you  is  the  salvation  by 
which  he  who  looks  on  you  is  made  blessed,  and  safe 
from  the  death  of  ignorance  and  of  vice.  Where  it  is 
said  :  Unless  he  fear  the  agony  of  sighs,  the  meaning  is, 
unless  he  fear  the  labor  of  study  and  the  strife  of  doubts, 
which,  at  the  beginning  of  the  looks  of  this  lady,  rise 
multiplied,  and  then,  her  light  continuing,  fall,  even  as 
the  little  morning  clouds  before  the  face  of  the  sun ;  so 
that  the  understanding,  become  her  familiar,  remains 
free  and  full  of  certainty,  purged  and  luminous  as  the 
air  by  the  noonday  rays. 

"  The  third  stanza  also  is  intelligible  through  the  literal 
exposition  to  where  it  says  :  Then  u-ee^)s  the  sot /I.  Here 
there  is  need  to  attend  carefully  to  a  moral  truth  which 
may  be  noted  in  these  words :  that  a  man  ought  not, 
because  of  a  greater  friend,  to  forget  the  services  he  has 
received  from  a  lesser  ;  but  if  it  be  needful  for  him  to 


120  ESSAYS. 

follow  the  one  and  to  leave  the  other,  he  must  follow 
the  best,  abandoning  the  other  with  some  honest  lamen- 
tation, by  which  he  gives  occasion  to  the  one  whom  he 
follows,  for  more  love. 

"  Afterward,  where  it  says  :  Then  of  my  eyes,  it  means 
nothing  else,  save  that  the  hour  was  hard  when  the  first 
demonstration  of  this  lady  entered  into  the  eyes  of  my 
understanding,  which  was  the  immediate  cause  of  this 
enamoring.  And  where  it  says  :  My  peers,  it  means, 
the  souls  free  from  wretched  and  mean  delights  and 
from  vulgar  customs,  and  endowed  with  intelligence  and 
memory.  And  then  it  says  :  It  slays,  and  then  :  I  am 
slain,  which  seems  contrary  to  what  is  said  before  of 
the  salvation  proceeding  from  this  lady.  And  therefore 
it  is  to  be  known  that  here  one  of  the  parties  is  speak- 
ing, and  there  the  other  is  speaking,  which  were  striv- 
ing against  each  other,  as  has  been  made  clear  in  what 
precedes.  Wherefore  it  is  no  wonder  if  there  it  says 
'  yes/  and  here  it  says  '  no,'  if  good  regard  be  paid  to 
who  descends,  and  who  mounts.1 

'•  Afterward,  in  the  fourth  stanza,  where  it  says  :  a 
little  sprite  of  Love,  by  this  is  meant  a  thought  which  is 
born  of  my  study ;  and  it  is  to  be  known  that  by  Love 
in  this  allegory  is  always  meant  that  study,  which  is  the 
application  of  the  mind  to  the  thing  whereof  it  is  enam- 
ored. 

"  Afterward  when  it  says  :  Thou  sho.lt  see  adorn- 
ment of  such  lofty  miracles,  it  declares  that  through 

1  That  which  mounts  is  the  love  of  Philosophy ;  that  which 
descends  is  the  love  of  Beatrice. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE   VITA    NUOVA,       121 

her  the  adornments  of  miracles  shall  be  seen  ;  and  it 
says  truth,  for  by  the  adornments  of  marvels  is  meant 
the  sight  of  the  causes  of  those  things  which  Philoso- 
phy demonstrates  ;  as  the  Philosopher  seems  to  hold  at 
the  beginning  of  his  Metaphysics,  saying  that  by  the 
sight  of  these  adornments  men  begin  to  become  enam- 
ored of  this  lady.  .  .  .  And  thus,  in  conclusion  of  this 
second  treatise,  I  say  and  affirm  that  the  lady  of  whom 
I  was  enamored,  after  my  first  love,  was  the  most 
beautiful  and  worthy  daughter  of  the  Emperor  of  the 
Universe,  to  whom  Pythagoras  gave  the  name  of  Phi- 
losophy. And  here  ends  the  second  treatise  which  is 
offered  as  the  first  viand  of  the  Banquet." 

The    canzone    prefixed  to  the  third    treatise    begins 
with  the  verse  :  — 

"  Love  which  discourseth  with  me  in  my  mind," 

and  is  that  which  Casella  chose  when  Dante  wooed  him 
to  sing, 

"  Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  Purgatory." 
That  Dante  himself  held  it  in  high  esteem  thus  seems 
manifest,  but  in  form  it  is  hardly  so  fair  as  the  pre- 
ceding canzone,  and  in  substance,  as  the  praise  of 
Philosophy  under  the  garb  of  a  lady,  it  requires  a  no  less 
elaborate  exposition  for  its  true  comprehension.  To 
this  exposition,  first  of  the  literal  meaning,  and  then  of 
the  meaning  concealed  within  the  letter,  the  third  trea- 
tise is  devoted. 

It  begins,  "  As  has  been  narrated  in  the  preceding 
treatise,  my  second  love  took  its    beginning  from   the 


122  ESSAYS. 

compassionate  looks  of  a  lady,  which  Love,  finding  my 
life  disposed  to  his  ardor,  kindled,  like  a  fire,  from  a 
little  to  a  great  flame,  so  that  not  only  when  I  waked, 
but  when  I  slept,  her  light  found  its  way  within  my 
head.  And  how  great  was  the  desire  which  Love  gave 
me  to  see  her  can  neither  be  told  nor  understood.  And 
not  only  was  I  thus  desirous  of  her,  but  also  of  all  those 
persons  who  had  any  proximity  to  her,  either  through 
acquaintance,  or  through  some  kinship.  Oh,  how  many 
were  the  nights,  when  the  eyes  of  other  persons  were 
reposing  closed  in  sleep,  and  mine  were  gazing  fixedly 
upon  the  dwelling  place  of  my  love  !  "  He  goes  on  to 
say  that  as  intense  fire  insists  on  breaking  out,  so  he 
could  not  refrain  from  speaking  of  Love,  in  praise 
of  her  whom  he  loved.  And  to  this,  beside  other  mo- 
tives, the  thought  moved  him,  that  "  I  should  per- 
haps be  blamed  for  levity  of  mind  by  many,  when  they 
heard  that  I  had  changed  from  my  first  love.  Where- 
fore to  prevent  this  blame,  there  was  no  better  argument 
than  to  tell  who  the  lady  was  that  had  changed  me ;  for 
her  manifest  excellence  would  lead  to  the  consideration 
of  her  power ;  and,  on  understanding  the  greatness  of 
her  power,  the  thought  might  follow  that  the  most  stable 
mind  was,  under  her  influence,  liable  to  change  ;  and 
therefore  I  was  not  to  be  judged  either  light-minded  or 
unstable.  Wherefore  I  undertook  to  praise  this  lady ; 
and  if  not  as  was  befitting,  at  least  to  the  degree  that  was 
within  my  power."  (iii.  1.) 

After  a  long  exposition  of   the  literal  meaning  of  the 
canzone  which  he  then  wrote,  Dante  says,  "  Returning 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE   VITA  NUOVA.       123 

now  to  the  beginning,  I  say  that  this  lady  is  that 
lady  of  the  understanding  which  is  called  Philosophy." 
And  Philosophy,  as  he  afterwards  explains,  "  is  naught 
else  than  the  love  of  wisdom  or  of  knowledge,"  and 
"  the  end  of  Philosophy  is  that  most  excellent  delight 
which  suffers  neither  intermission  nor  defect,  namely, 
the  true  felicity  which  is  acquired  through  contemplation 
of  the  truth."  And  those  branches  "  of  knowledge  on 
which  Philosophy  fixes  her  sight  most  fervently,  that  is 
to  say,  natural  science,  moral  science,  and  metaphysics, 
are  called  by  her  noble  name."  (iii.  11.) 

When  then  "  I  say :  Love,  which  within  my  mind 
discourseth  with  me,  I  mean  by  Love  the  study  which 
I  applied  in  order  to  acquire  the  love  of  this  Lady,  .  .  . 
and  this  study  shaped  within  my  mind  continual  new 
and  most  lofty  considerations  of  this  Lady."  And  when 
in  his  canzone  he  says,  that  the  Sun  which  circles  all 
the  world  sees  not  a  thing  so  gentle  as  she,  he  means  by 
the  Sun,  God,  and  that  He,  who  is  the  spiritual  light  of 
the  world,  sees  no  such  gentle  thing  as  when  He  sees  this 
Philosophy,  "  which  is  the  loving  practice  of  wisdom, 
which  has  its  source  in  God,  because  in  Him  is  supreme 
wisdom,  and  supreme  love,  and  supreme  act,  which  can- 
not exist  elsewhere  save  as  they  proceed  from  Him. 
The  Divine  Philosophy  is,  therefore,  of  the  Divine  es- 
sence, because  in  this  nothing  can  be  added  to  its  own 
essence  ;  and  it  is  most  noble,  because  the  most  noble 
essence  is  the  Divine  ;  and  it  is  in  It  in  a  perfect  and  true 
mode,  as  by  eternal  marriage."  (iii.  12.) 

And  hence,  it  follows,  that  '•  where  the  love  of  this 


124  ESSAYS. 

bride  of  God  is  resplendent,  all  other  loves  become  dark, 
and,  as  it  were,  extinct ;  because  its  eternal  object,  bearing 
no  proportion  to  other  objects,  conquers  and  overcomes 
them." 

Thus  Philosophy,  which  in  its  first  beginnings  in  the 
mind  deals  with  things  mortal  and  of  earth,  brings  her 
lover  at  last  to  things  immortal  and  heavenly.  "  It  is 
to  be  known  that  the  beholding  of  this  lady  was  so 
largely  ordained  to  us,  not  only  that  we  may  see  the  face 
she  shows  to  us,  but  that  we  may  desire  and  attain  to 
those  things  which  she  holds  concealed.  And  as  through 
her  many  of  those  things  are  seen  by  the  reason,  so 
through  her  we  believe  that  every  miracle  may  have  its 
reason  in  a  higher  intellect,  and  consequently  may  be. 
Whence  our  good  faith  has  its  origin,  and  from  faith 
comes  the  hope  of  the  anticipated  things  which  we  desire, 
and  from  that  is  born  the  working  of  charity  ;  by  the 
which  three  virtues  we  rise  to  philosophize  in  that  celes- 
tial Athens  where  the  Stoics,  Peripatetics,  and  Epicure- 
ans, through  the  art  of  eternal  truth,  concur  accordantly 
in  a  single  will."  (iii.  14.) 

It  is  through  Philosophy  alone  that  beatitude,  the 
chief  good  of  Paradise,  is  to  be  attained.  This  delight 
cannot  be  found  in  anything  on  earth,  save  in  her  eyes 
and  her  smile,  for  "  her  eyes  are  the  demonstrations 
of  wisdom  by  which  the  truth  is  seen  with  full  assur- 
ance, and  her  smiles  are  its  persuasions,  in  which  the 
inner  light  of  wisdom  is  shown  without  a  veil."  "  And 
only  in  beholding  her  is  human  perfection  acquired,  that 
is,  the  perfection  of  the  reason,  on  which,  as  on  its  prin« 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE   VITA    NUOVA.       125 

cipal  part,  all  our  being  depends."  Moreover  another 
delight  of  Paradise,  a  secondary  felicity,  proceeds  from 
her  beauty,  for  morality  is  her  beauty,  and  to  live  ac- 
cording to  virtue  ig  felicity.  And  finally,  in  highest 
praise  of  that  Wisdom  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  body  of 
Philosophy,  it  was  with  her  that  God  began  the  world, 
so  that,  speaking  through  Solomon,  she  says,  "  When 
God  prepared  the  heavens  I  was  there." 

"  Oh,  worse  than  dead  ye  who  fly  from  her  friendship  ! 
Open  your  eyes  and  behold,  that  before  ye  were  she 
loved  you,  and  after  ye  were  created,  in  order  to  set  you 
right,  she  came  in  your  own  likeness  to  you  !  And  if  ye 
all  cannot  come  unto  the  sight  of  her,  honor  her  in  her 
friends,  and  obey  their  commands,  as  those  who  an- 
nounce to  you  the  will  of  this  eternal  Empress.  .  .  .  And 
here  may  end  the  exposition  of  the  true  meaning  of  this 
Canzone."  (iii.  15.) 

Thus  with  the  exaltation  of  Philosophy,  till  from  the 
order  of  human  knowledge  she  rises  to  be  the  Wisdom 
of  God,  finally  incarnate  in  the  Son  of  God  himself, 
Dante  completes  the  praise  of  her  who,  by  the  sweetness 
of  her  compassionating  countenance,  had  drawn  his  eyes, 
and,  following  them,  his  heart,  from  his  first  love.  Here, 
then,  the  relation  of  the  Banquet  to  the  New  Life 
ends.  Let  us  briefly  review  it. 

The  first  part  of  the  exposition,  in  the  Banquet,  of  the 
experience  which  Dante  underwent  some  time  after  the 
death  of  Beatrice,  corresponds  nearly  enough  with  that 
portion  of  the  narrative  in  the  New  Life  which  tells  of 
the  gentle  lady  whom  he  saw  looking  upon  him  from  a 


126  ESSAYS. 

window  with  compassionate  gaze,  provided  that  this  lat- 
ter narrative  be  interpreted  according  to  the  allegoric 
signification  which  he  teaches  us  in  the  Banquet  to  find 
in  it.  Mr.  Lowell,  in  his  essay  on  Dante,  has  pointed 
out  that  by  putting  the  gentle  lady  at  a  window,  which 
is  a  place  to  look  out,  he  intended  to  imply  that  she 
personified  Speculation,  or  the  turning  of  the  eyes  of 
the  mind  to  the  contemplation  of  those  things  of  which 
the  study  might  distract  the  mind  from  sorrow.  The 
conflict  between  the  new  thoughts  which  sought  to  take 
possession  of  Dante's  soul  and  the  old  which  held  it  in 
affliction  for  the  loss  of  Beatrice  is  depicted  in  the  son- 
nets of  the  New  Life  much  as  it  is  exhibited  in  the  can- 
zone of  the  Banquet.  There  is  no  difficulty  in  reconcil- 
ing one  account  with  the  other,  till  we  come  in  the  New 
Life  to  the  chapter  (c.  xl.)  in  which  Dante  tells  of  the 
vision  of  Beatrice,  as  she  had  first  appeared  to  his  eyes, 
which  recalled  him  wholly  to  his  allegiance  to  her,  and 
made  him  "  repent  of  the  desire  by  which  his  heart  had 
allowed  itself  to  be  possessed  so  vilely  for  some  days,  con- 
trary to  the  constancy  of  the  reason,  so  that  this  evil  de- 
sire being  driven  out,  all  his  thoughts  returned  to  their 
most  gentle  Beatrice."  Here  the  contradiction  between 
the  one  narrative  and  the  other  appears  complete,  and 
at  first  sight  irreconcilable,  whether  interpreted  literally 
or  allegorically.  I  believe  that  as  they  stand  they  are 
irreconcilable.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  what  may  be 
called  a  moral  reconciliation  of  them  is  possible,  nay, 
must  be  possible,  if  we  accept  Dante's  own  assertion 
that  the  Banquet  was  intended  to  confirm  and  not  in 
any  respect  to  detract  from  the  New  Life. 


THE  CONVITO  AND   THE  VITA  NUOVA.       127 

The  difference  in  the  character  of  the  two  books 
needs  first  to  he  considered.  The  New  Life  is  a 
book  of  poetry,  a  composition  of  art,  a  work  largely 
shaped  by  the  pure  imagination,  while  the  Banquet  is 
essentially  a  work  of  moral  philosophy,  of  unusual  form, 
indeed,  but  of  a  form  which  does  not  interfere  with  the 
directness  of  its  ethical  teaching.  The  main  doctrine  of 
the  portions  of  the  Banquet  which  have  immediate  re- 
lation to  the  New  Life  is  the  mounting  of  the  soul  of 
man,  by  its  inborn  love  of  truth,  through  the  study  of 
the  things  of  the  visible  world  to  the  contemplation  and 
study  of  the  things  of  the  invisible  world,  until  the  soul 
finds  the  beatitude  which  it  seeks  in  union  with  God,  who 
is  the  proper  object  of  its  love  and  in  whom  is  Truth 
itself. 

Now  in  the  New  Life  this  same  doctrine  lies  concealed 
under  a  poetic  garb.  Beatrice  on  earth  had  been  in  her 
loveliness  the  type  to  her  lover  of  the  beauty  of  eternal 
things  ;  she  had  lifted  his  heart  from  sensual  to  spiritual 
love ;  she  had  revealed  to  him  the  Creator  in  his  crea- 
ture. But  her  death  had  plunged  him  in  a  grief  which 
derived  no  consolation  from  spiritual  comforts.  In  his 
sorrow  he  at  length  turned  himself  to  such  sources  of 
comfort  as  he  could  find  in  study,  and,  seeking  silver,  he 
found  gold.  For  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  gi-adually 
opened  to  him  the  way  to  wisdom.  Philosophy,  which 
first  showed  herself  to  him  as  the  mistress  of  human 
science,  so  long  as  she  was  only  this,  was  merely  the 
means  of  distracting  his  thoughts.  And  in  this  aspect 
she  became  hateful  to  him.  Then  Beatrice  revealed 


128  ESSAYS. 

herself  in  vision  to  him  no  longer  merely  as  a  type  of 
heavenly  things,  but  as  herself  the  guide  to  the  know- 
ledge of  them,  herself  the  revealer  of  the  Divine  truth. 
She,  looking  upon  the  face  of  God,  reflected  its  light 
upon  her  lover.  She  became  the  image  of  Divine  Phi- 
losophy. 

This  seems  to  me  no  forced  interpretation  of  the  close 
of  the  New  Life.  Save  in  the  introduction  of  Bea- 
trice as  the  image  of  the  Phik>sophy  through  the  love  of 
which  the  higher  truths  of  the  spiritual  life  are  attained, 
the  substance  is  essentially  the  same  with  that  of  the 
Banquet.  The  New  Life  presents  poetically  what  the 
Banquet  presents  without  the  coloring  of  poetry. 

In  the  latter  Dante  omits  all  mention  of  the  failure  of 
the  Philosophy  applied  to  the  lower  ranges  of  thought 
to  satisfy  his  cravings  for  the  truth  in  which  the  soul 
finds  its  rest,  as  the  wild  beast  in  his  lair,  but  narrates 
the  unbroken  progress  from  that  Philosophy  which  deals 
with  knowledge  to  that  which  is  Wisdom  itself,  through 
which  the  vision  of  divine  and  eternal  things  is  opened 
to  the  soul.  Why  he  did  not  bring  the  narratives  in 
his  two  books  into  complete  external  harmony  is  perhaps 
to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  canzoni,  to  the 
exposition  of  which,  as  the  praises  of  Philosophy  under 
the  form  of  a  gentle  lady,  the  second  and  third  treatises 
of  the  Banquet  are  devoted,  contain  nothing  which  might 
give  him  direct  occasion  to  recur  to  the  figurative  signi- 
ficance of  Beatrice  in  her  final  aspect  in  the  New  Life. 

It  was  his  aim  to  show  that  his  apparent  faithlessness 
to  her  memory  had  not  been  such  in  reality ;  to  no  other 


ON  THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  VITA  NUOVA.    129 

earthly  love  had  he  turned,  but  he  had  given  himself  to 
the  love  of  that  wisdom  "  which  whoso  findeth,  findeth 
life,"  and  having  shown  this,  he  desisted  from  setting 
forth  the  fact  that  the  earthly  Beatrice  had  become 
transfigured  in  his  soul  to  the  living  image  of  Her  "  who 
maketh  happy  him  who  retaineth  her." 

With  such  an  understanding  as  this  of  the  relation  be- 
tween the  New  Life  and  the  Banquet,  they,  serve  fitly 
as  the  joint  introduction  to  the  Divine  Comedy,  in  which 
the  genius  of  Dante  at  length  found  its  full  expression, 
and  he  accomplished  his  hope  of  "  saying  of  Beatrice 
what  was  never  said  of  any  woman." 

III. 
ON   THE   STRUCTURE  OF  THE   VITA   NUOVA. 

It  is  to  be  observed  upon  close  examination,  that  the 
poems  of  the  Vita  Nuova  are  arranged  in  such  order  as 
to  suggest  an  intention  on  the  part  of  Dante  to  give  his 
work  a  symmetrical  structure.  If  the  arrangement  be 
accidental,  or  governed  simply  by  the  relation  of  the 
poems  to  the  sequence  of  the  events  described  in  the 
narrative  which  connects  them,  it  is  certainly  curious 
that  they  happened  to  fall  into  such  order  as  to  give  to 
the  little  book  a  surprising  regularity  of  construction. 

The  succession  of  the  thirty-one  poems  of  the  New 
Life  is  as  follows :  — 

5  sonnets, 
I  ballad, 


130  ESSAYS. 

4  sonnets, 
1  canzone, 
4  sonnets, 
1  canzone, 

3  sonnets, 

1  imperfect  canzone, 

1  canzone, 

1  sonnet, 

1  imperfect  canzone, 

8  sonnets. 

At  first  sight  no  regularity  appears  in  their  order,  but 
a  little  analysis  reveals  it.  The  most  important  poems, 
not  only  from  their  form  and  length,  but  also  from  their 
substance,  are  the  three  canzoni.  Now  it  will  be  ob- 
served that  the  first  canzone  is  preceded  by  ten  and 
followed  by  four  minor  poems.  The  second  canzone, 
which  is  by  far  the  most  elaborate  poem  of  the  whole, 
stands  alone,  holding  the  central  place  in  the  volume. 
The  third  canzone  is  preceded  by  four  and  followed  by 
ten  minor  poems,  like  the  first  in  inverse  order.  Thus 
the  arrangement  appears  as  follows  : 

10  minor  poems, 
1  canzone, 

4  minor  poems, 
1  canzone, 

4  minor  poems, 
1  canzone, 
10  minor  poems. 

Here,  leaving  the  central  canzone  to  stand  by  itself, 
we  have  three  series  of  ten  poems  each.     It  will  be  ob- 


O.V  THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  VITANUOVA.   131 

served  further,  that  the  first  and  the  third  canzone  stand 
at  the  same  distance  from  the  central  poem,  and  that 
ten  minor  poems  separate  the  one  from  the  beginning, 
the  other  from  the  end  of  the  book,  and  in  each  in- 
stance nine  of  these  poems  are  sonnets.  It  is  also  worth 
remark,  that  while  the  first  canzone  is  followed  by 
four  sonnets,  and  the  third  is  preceded  by  three  son- 
nets and  an  imperfect  canzone,  this  imperfect  canzone  is 
a  single  stanza,  which  has  the  same  number  of  lines,  and 
the  same  arrangement  of  its  lines  in  respect  to  rhyme, 
as  »  sonnet,  differing  in  this  respect  from  the  other 
canzoni.  It  may  be  fairly  classed  as  a  sonnet,  its  only 
difference  from  one  being  in  the  name  that  Dante  has 
given  to  it. 

The  symmetrical  construction  now  appears  still  more 
clearly :  — 

10  minor  poems,  all  but  one  of  them  sonnets, 

1  canzone, 

4  sonnets, 

1  canzone, 

4  sonnets, 

1  canzone, 
10  minor  poems,  all  but  one  of  them  sonnets. 

It  may  be  taken  as  evidence  that  this  regularity  of 
arrangement  was  intentional,  that  a  comparison  of  the 
first  with  the  third  canzone  shows  them  to  be  mutually 
related,  one  being  the  balance  of  the  other.  The  first 
begins : — 

"  Donne  ch'  avete  intelletto  d'  amore 

lo  vo"  con  voi  della  inia  donna  dire  ;  " 


132  ESS  A  YS. 

and  the  last  line  of  its  first  stanza  is,  — 

' '  Che  non  e  cosa  da  parlarne  altrui.' ' 

In  the  first  stanza  of  the  third  there  is  a  distinct  ret 
erence  to  these  words  :  — 

"  E  perche  mi  ricorda  ch'  io  parlai 

Delia  mia  donna,  mentre  che  vivia, 
Donne  gentili,  volentier  con  vui, 
Non  vo'  parlarne  altrui 
Se  non  a  cor  gentil  che  'n  donna  sia. " 

The  second  stanza  of  the  first  canzone  relates  to  the 
desire  which  is  felt  in  Heaven  for  Beatrice.  The  cor- 
responding stanza  of  the  third  declares  that  it  was  this 
desire  for  her  which  led  to  her  being  taken  from  the 
world.  The  third  stanza  of  the  one  relates  to  the  opera- 
tion of  her  virtues  and  beauties  upon  earth ;  of  the 
other,  to  the  remembrance  of  them.  There  is  a  simi- 
larity of  expression  to  be  traced  throughout. 

In  the  last  stanza,  technically  called  the  commiato, 
or  dismissal,  in  which  the  poem  is  personified  and  sent 
on  its  way,  in  the  first  canzone  it  is  called  fifjlmola 
d'  amor,  in  the  third,  figliuola  di  tristlzia.  One  was 
the  daughter  of  love,  the  other  of  sorrow ;  one  was  the 
poem  recording  Beatrice's  life,  the  other  her  death.  It 
is  thus  that  one  is  made  to  serve  as  the  complement  and 
balance  of  the  other  in  the  structure  of  the  New  Life. 

It  may  be  possible  to  trace  a  similar  relation  between 
some  of  the  minor  poems  of  the  beginning  and  the  end 
of  the  volume  ;  but  I  have  not  observed  it,  if  it  exists. 

The  second  canzone  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  most  im- 


ON  THE  STRUCTURE  OF  THE  VITA  NUOVA.    133 

portant  poem  in  the  volume,  from  the  force  of  imagina- 
tion displayed  in  it,  as  well  as  from  its  serving  to  con- 
nect the  life  of  Beatrice  with  her  death ;  and  thus  it 
holds,  as  of  right,  its  central  position  in  relation  to  the 
poems  which  precede  and  follow  it. 

But  another,  not  less  numerically  symmetrical,  divi- 
sion of  these  poems,  no  longer  according  to  their  form, 
but  according  to  their  subject,  may  be  observed  by  the 
careful  reader.  The  first  ten  of  them  relate  to  the  be- 
ginning of  Dante's  love,  and  to  his  own  early  experiences 
as  a  lover.  At  their  close  he  says  that  it  seemed  to  him 
he  had  said  enough  of  his  own  state,  and  that  it  be- 
hoved him  to  take  up  a  new  theme,  and  that  he  there- 
upon resolved  thenceforth  to  make  the  praise  of  his  lady 
his  sole  theme  (cc.  xvii.,  xviii).  This  theme  is  the  rul- 
ing motive  of  the  next  ten  poems.  The  last  of  them  is 
interrupted  by  the  death  of  Beatrice,  and  thereafter  he 
takes  up,  as  he  again  says,  a  new  theme,  and  the  next 
ten  poems  are  devoted  to  his  affliction,  to  the  episode  of 
the  gentle  lady,  and  to  his  return  to  his  faithful  love  of 
Beatrice.  One  poem,  the  last,  remains.  It  differs  from 
all  the  rest ;  he  calls  it  a  neiv  thing.  It  is  the  consum- 
mation of  his  experience  of  love  in  the  vision  of  his  Lady 
in  glory. 

It  is  to  be  noted  as  a  peculiarity  of  this  final  poem, 
and  an  indication  of  its  composition  at  a  later  period 
than  those  which  precede  it,  that  whereas  the  visions 
which  they  report  have  reference,  without  exception,  to 
things  which  the  poet  had  experienced,  or  seen,  or  fan- 


134  ESSAYS. 

cied,  when  awake,  thus  appearing  to  be  dependent  on 
previous  waking  excitements,  the  vision  related  in  this 
sonnet  seems,  on  the  contrary,  to  have  had  its  origin  in 
no  external  circumstance,  but  to  be  the  result  of  a  purely 
internal  condition  of  feeling.  It  was  a  new  Intelligence 
that  led  his  sigh  upwards,  —  a  new  Intelligence  which 
prepared  him  for  his  vision  at  Easter  in  1300. 

If  a  reason  be  inquired  for  that  might  lead  Dante 
thus  symmetrically  to  arrange  the  poems  of  this  little 
book  in  a  triple  series  of  ten  around  a  central  unit,  or 
in  a  triple  series  of  ten,  followed  by  a  single  poem  in 
which  he  is  guided  to  Heaven  by  a  new  Intelligence, 
it  may  perhaps  be  found  in  the  value  which  he  set  upon 
ten  as  the  perfect  number ;  while  in  the  three  times  re- 
peated series,  culminating  in  a  single  central  or  final 
poem,  he  may  have  pleased  himself  with  some  fanciful 
analogy  to  that  three  and  one  on  which  he  dwells  in  the 
passage  in  which  he  treats  of  the  friendliness  of  the 
number  nine  to  Beatrice.  At  any  rate,  as  he  there  says, 
"  this  is  the  reason  which  I  see  for  it,  and  which  best 
pleases  me ;  though  perchance  a  more  subtile  reason 
might  be  seen  therein  by  a  more  subtile  person." 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


I. 

The  book  of  my  memory.  So  in  the  Paradiso,  xxiii.  54, 
Dante  calls  the  memory,  "  II  libro  che  '1  preterito  rassegna," 
— "  The  book  that  records  the  past."  In  the  Inferno,  ii. 
8,  he  says,  "  O  mente  !  che  scrivesti  cio  ch'  io  vidi,"  —  "  O 
mind  !  that  didst  write  down  that  which  I  saw."  And  again 
in  the  canzone  beginning,  "  E'  m'  incresce  di  me  si  niala- 
mente,"  he  uses  the  same  expression  :  — 

' '  Secondo  che  si  trova 
Nel  libro  della  mente,"  — 

"  According  as  is  found  in  the  book  of  memory."  Chaucer 
and  Shakespeare  both  use  the  same  metaphor  ;  it  is  indeed 
such  a  common  one  with  the  poets  that  its  use  by  Dante  is 
worth  noting  only  because  of  its  peculiar  appropriateness  to 
his  own  memory,  the  distinctness  and  strength  of  which  were 
such  as  if  its  recollections  were  registered  where  every  day 
he  turned  the  leaf  to  read  them. 


II. 


Nine  times  now,  since  my  birth.  The  number  nine  plays 
a  great  part  in  this  little  book.  According  to  the  so-called 
Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy,  which  Dante  adopted,  there 
were  nine  revolving  concentric  heavens  or  spheres,  in  the 
centre  of  which  the  earth  rested  immovable,  while  outside 


138  NOTES. 

all  was  the  tenth,  —  the  Empyrean,  —  immovable  and  most 
divine,  the  seat  of  God,  and  the  Paradise  of  Blessed  Spirits. 
The  Empyrean  was  the  cause  of  the  motion  of  the  crystalline 
or  first  moving  Heaven,  "  all  the  parts  of  which  so  long  to  be 
united  with  those  of  that  most  divine  quiet  Heaven,  that  it 
revolves  within  it  with  such  desire  that  its  velocity  is  almost 
inconceivable."  (Convito,  ii.  4.)  The  revolution  of  the  in- 
visible crystalline  sphere  was  accomplished  in  very  nearly 
twenty-four  hours,  and  regulated  the  daily  revolution  of  all 
the  other  spheres  comprised  within  it.  (Convito,  ii.  3,  15.) 

By  the  heaven  of  light  Dante  means  the  sphere  of  the  Sun, 
the  fourth  in  order  above  the  earth,  which,  as  he  tells  us, 
"  moves,  following  the  movement  of  the  starry  sphere,  from 
west  to  east  one  degree  in  a  hundred  years."  The  apparent 
movement  of  the  Heaven  of  the  Fixed  Stars  from  west  to 
east,  to  which  Dante  here  refers,  is  due  to  what  in  modern 
times  has  been  called  the  precession  of  the  equinoxes.  "  The 
term  denotes  a  small  annual  variation  in  the  position  of  the 
line  in  which  the  planes  of  the  ecliptic  and  equator  inter- 
sect each  other,  in  consequence  of  which  the  sun  returns  to 
the  same  equinoctial  point  before  completing  his  apparent 
revolution  with  respect  to  the  fixed  stars."  The  precessionaJ 
motion  of  the  equinoctial  points  was  known  at  an  early  period, 
but  its  precise  rate  has  only  been  recently  determined.  The 
retrogradation  is  now  estimated  at  one  degree  in  seventy-one 
and  six  tenths  years,  but  in  Dante's  time  the  rate  at  which 
the  equinoctial  points  retrograded  on  the  ecliptic  was  sup- 
posed to  be  about  one  degree  in  a  hundred  years.  (Convito, 
ii.  G.)  One  of  the  twelve  parts  of  a  degree  would  consequently 
be  passed  through  in  eight  and  a  half  years.  As  Dante  was 
born  in  1265,  it  follows  that  his  first  meeting  with  Beatrice 
was  in  1274. 


NOTES.  139 

The  glorious  Lady  of  my  mind :  the  epithet  gloriosa  is  here 
used  to  indicate  that  the  Lady  was  no  longer  living,  and  the 
meaning  of  these  words  is,  "  the  Lady  of  my  memory  now 
in  glory."  See  chapter  xxix. 

Who  was  called  Beatrice  by  many  who  knew  not  what  to  call 
her :  that  is,  who  knowing  not  her  proper  name  called  her 
Beatrice,  she  who  blesses,  as  the  name  belonging  to  her  by 
right  of  nature.  Compare  the  sonnet  in  chapter  xxiv.  in 
which  Love  says  of  Beatrice  — 

"  and  she,  because 
She  so  resembleth  me,  is  named  Love." 

The  spirit  of  life  ....  began  to  tremble.  Compare  with 
this  passage  the  canzone  beginning,  "  E'  m'  incresce  di  me 
si  malamente,"  especially  that  portion  of  it  in  which  Dante 
speaks  of  the  effect  of  the  first  sight  of  his  lady  upon 
him  :  — 

"E,  se  '1  libro  non  erra, 
Lo  spirito  maggior  trem6  si  forte, 
Che  parve  ben,  che  morte 
Per  lui  in  questo  mondo  giunta  fosse." 

"  And  if  the  book  errs  not, 
The  greater  spirit  trembled  so  amain, 
That  it  appeared  full  plain 
That  death  for  it  had  in  this  world  arrived." 

"  She  seems  not  the  daughter  of  mortal  man,  but  of  God." 

'A.v$p6s  yf  Ovrirov  iraTs  e/j.ij.tva.1,  a\\a  fleotb. 

Iliad,  xxiv.  258. 

Dante's  acquaintance  with  this  saying  of  Homer's  concern- 


140  NOTES. 

ing  Hector  came  through  Aristotle,  who  cites  it  in  the  Nico- 
machean  Ethics  (vii.  1).  The  Iliad  was  not  accessible  to 
readers  in  Dante's  time. 

Boccaccio  has  closely  imitated  this  section  of  the  Vita 
Nuova  in  the  beginning  of  his  Filocopo,  introducing  even  the 
same  citation  from  Homer. 


III. 

This  most  gentle  lady.  The  usual  epithet  which  Dante  in 
the  New  Life  applies  to  Beatrice  is  gentiiissima,  "  most  gen- 
tle," while  other  ladies  to  whom  he  refers  are  called  simply 
gentile,  "gentle."  The  term  is  used  with  a  signification  sim- 
ilar to  that  which  it  has  in  our  own  early  literature,  and  of 
fuller  meaning  than  it  now  retains.  It  refers  both  to  race, 
as  in  the  phrase  "  of  gentle  birth,"  and  to  qualities  of  nature 
and  character. 

The  canzone  to  the  illustration  of  which  the  fourth  Trea- 
tise of  the  Convito  is  devoted,  is  on  gentilezza,  and  the  poet 
tells  us  that  gentilesse  is  a  grace  of  God,  the  companion  of 
virtue,  and  bestowed  on  that  soul  which  God  sees  to  pos- 
sess an  outward  form  adapted  and  disposed  to  receive  this 
divine  infusion.  And  in  the  comment  he  says  (c.  14)  that 
gentleness  and  nobleness  are  the  same,  and  (c.  16)  that  ' '  by 
nobleness  is  meant  the  perfection  of  its  own  nature  in  any- 
thing." Gentiiissima,  therefore,  as  Dante  uses  it,  implies  all 
that  is  loveliest  in  person  and  character. 

In  the  New  Life,  especially  after  Beatrice's  death,  the 
term  gloriosa  is  occasionally  substituted  for  gentiiissima  ;  and 
the  latter  epithet  is  never  applied  to  her  in  the  Divine  Com- 
edy. Its  appropriateness  had  ceased,  for  there  was  "  another 
glory  of  the  celestial  body." 


NOTES.  141 

Her  ineffable  courtesy.  "  Courtesy  "  also  fails  to  render  the 
full  significance  of  cortesia.  In  the  Convito  (ii.  11)  Danto 
says  :  "  Nothing  is  more  becoming  to  a  lady  than  courtesy. 
And  let  not  the  wretched  herd  be  deceived,  supposing  cour- 
tesy to  be  naught  else  than  liberality  ;  for  liberality  is  a 
special  act  of  courtesy,  not  courtesy  in  general.  Courtesy 
and  integrity  are  all  one  ;  and  because  in  courts  of  old  the 
virtues  and  fair  manners  were  customary  (as  to-day  the 
opposite  is  the  case),  this  word  was  derived  from  the  courts  ; 
and  to  say  courtesy  was  the  same  as  to  say  the  usage  of  the 
court ;  but,  if  to-day  tkis  word  were  to  be  derived  from 
courts,  especially  from  those  of  Italy,  it  would  mean  naught 
else  than  depravity." 

Famous  poets  at  that  time.  The  infancy  of  Italian  poetry  at 
this  period  is  indicated  by  the  use  here  of  the  word  tro- 
vatore,  "  troubadour,"  which  I  have  translated  by  "  poet." 

To  every  captive  soul  and  gentle  heart.  This  dark  sonnet 
is  of  interest  as  being  the  earliest  known  poetic  composi- 
tion by  Dante,  and  also  as  describing  a  vision.  I  have  al- 
ready referred  to  the  fact,  that  this  book  is  in  great  part 
composed  of  the  account  of  a  series  of  visions,  and  is  thus 
connected  in  the  form  of  its  imaginations  with  the  great 
work  of  Dante's  later  years.  As  a  description  of  things  seen 
by  the  spiritual  eye,  this  sonnet  is  united  in  poetic  relation- 
ship to  the  nobler  visions  of  the  Divine  Comedy  •  but  it  has 
the  defects  of  a  juvenile  composition,  and  alike  in  form  and 
in  conception  resembles  the  work  of  Dante's  poetic  prede- 
cessors, from  whose  archaic  limitations  his  genius  was  soon 
to  free  itself. 

This  sonnet  is  divided  into  tiuo  parts.     The  interruption  of 


142  NOTES. 

the  narrative  here,  and  after  or  before  all  the  following 
poetic  compositions  in  the  New  Life,  by  a  formal  division 
and  analysis  of  the  structure  of  each  poem,  interferes  with 
the  continuity  of  the  story,  and  may  sometimes  jar  on  the 
feelings  of  the  modern  reader  by  seeming  to  connect  an  ele- 
ment of  artificiality  with  the  expression  of  feeling  the  depth 
and  simplicity  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  doubt.  But  the 
literary  taste  and  training  of  Dante's  day  were  so  different 
from  ours,  that  it  is  wrong  to  apply  our  modern  standard  to 
his  work.  In  compiling  and  publishing  the  New  Life  he  was 
making  a  great  innovation.  He  was  claiming  a  position  of 
dignity  for  his  work  which  had  hitherto  been  refused  to  all 
compositions  in  the  vulgar  tongue.  It  was  an  assault  on  the 
literary  supremacy,  still  superstitiously  maintained,  of  the 
Latin  language.  He  had  to  prove  his  right,  not  only  as  poet, 
but  also  as  scholar  ;  to  show  that  his  verses  were  produc- 
tions deserving  of  as  much  consideration  as  if  composed  in  a 
dead  language,  and  that  a  comment  upon  them  was  as  much 
in  place  as  upon  the  verses  of  a  classic  author. 

There  is  no  essential  incongruity  between  these  divisions 
and  the  remainder  of  the  New  Life.  They  are  simply  in- 
dications of  an  early  stage  of  literary  culture,  and  their 
naivete  often  adds  a  fresh  charm  of  simplicity  to  the  little 
book. 

He  whom  I  call  first  of  my  friends.  This  was  Guido  Ca- 
valcanti.  Their  friendship  was  of  long  duration,  beginning 
thus  in  Dante's  nineteenth  year,  and  ending  only  with  Gui- 
de's death  in  1300.  It  may  be  taken  as  a  proof  of  its  inti- 
macy, as  well  as  of  Dante's  high  estimate  of  the  genius  of 
his  friend,  that,  when  in  his  course  through  Hell  he  is  recog- 
nized by  the  father  of  Guido,  the  first  words  of  the  old  man 
to  him  are  :  — 


NOTES.  143 

"  If  through  this  blind 
Prison  thou  goest  by  loftiness  of  genius, 
Where  is  my  son  ?  and  why  is  he  not  with  thee  ?  " 

Inferno,  x.  58-60. 

Benvenuto  da  Imola  in  his  comment  on  this  canto  calls 
Guido  "  alter  oculus  Florentise  tempore  Dantis." 

The  sonnet  of  Guido  in  reply  to  that  sent  him  by  Dante 
has  been  preserved,  and  may  be  thus  translated  :  — 

"  All  worth,  in  my  opinion,  thou  hast  seen, 

All  joy,  and  good  as  much  as  man  may  know, 
If  thou  in  power  of  that  strong  lord  host  been, 
Who  rules  the  world  of  honor  here  below. 

For  there  he  hath  his  life  where  trouble  dies, 
And  holds  discourse  within  the  tender  soul ; 
And  unto  folk  in  dreams  so  sweet  he  hies, 
He  bears  away  their  hearts  withouten  dole. 

Your  heart  he  bore  away,  for  in  his  sight 

Death  its  demand  was  making  for  your  dame. 
Fearful  of  which  he  fed  her  with  that  heart. 

But  when  he  seemed  in  sorrow  to  depart, 

Sweet  was  the  dream  that  to  its  end  thus  came, 
For  death  was  conquered  by  its  opposite.' ' 

See  the  excellent  edition  of  Le  Rime  di  Guido  Cavalcanti, 
by  Professor  Nicola  Arnone,  Florence,  1881. 

Two  other  answers  to  Dante's  sonnet  have  also  come  down 
to  us,  one  by  the  famous  poet  Cino  da  Pistoja,  to  whom  a 
letter  ascribed  to  Dante  is  addressed,  in  which  the  writer 
calls  himfrater  carissime.  Dante  in  his  treatise  De  Vulgari 
Eloquio  praises  Cino's  poems,  beside  always  citing  his  own 
poems  as  by  "  the  friend  of  Cino."  The  other  answer  is  by 
Dante  de  Majano,  one  of  the  minor  poets  of  the  day. 
Neither  of  them  is  worth  translating. 


144  NOTES. 

The  true  meaning  of  this  dream  was  not  then  seen  by  any 
one.  The  possession  of  Dante's  heart  by  the  lady  in  the 
arms  of  Love  was  clearly  evident,  but  it  was  not  seen  that 
the  departure  of  Love  in  tears  to  Heaven  was  the  premoni- 
tion of  the  death  of  Beatrice. 


VI. 


/  composed  an  epistle  in  the  form  of  a  serventese.  The 
sirvente  or  serventese  was  a  form  of  poetic  composition  de- 
rived by  the  Italians  from  the  Provencal  poets.  The  sirvente 
of  the  Provencals  seems  to  have  been  originally,  as  its  name 
indicates,  a  poem  of  service  or  honor,  but  it  soon  acquired 
the  character  of  a  poem  of  praise  or  satire,  seldom  treating 
of  matters  of  love.  It  was  written  sometimes  in  stanzas  of 
eight  lines,  sometimes  in  quatrains,  but  more  commonly 
in  triplets,  interwoven  by  the  rhyme.  But,  according  to 
Crescimbeni  (Delia  Poesia  Ilaliana,  ii.  13),  its  construction 
seems  not  to  have  been  determined  by  any  fixed  rules. 

Among  Dante's  miscellaneous  poems  there  is  a  sonnet  in 
which  there  seems  to  be  a  reference  to  the  list  of  the  sixty 
fair  women,  on  which  the  name  of  his  lady  stood  as  the 
ninth.  It  is  addressed  to  Guido  Cavalcanti,  and  the  friend 
referred  to  in  it  under  the  name  of  Lapo  is  supposed  to  have 
been  one  Lapo  Gianni,  —  like  his  friends,  a  writer  of  verses 
in  those  poetic  days.  The  name  of  Guide's  mistress  was 
Giovanna,  and  that  of  Lapo's  love  was  Lagia,  as  we  learn 
from  one  of  his  poems.  It  is  she  who  is  referred  to  in  the 
sonnet  as  having  stood  thirtieth  on  the  roll  of  fair  ladies. 
The  sonnet  has  a  modern  tone  of  fancy  and  feeling,  and  is 
known  to  English  readers  by  a  translation  of  it  made  by 
Shelley.  The  following  is  a  more  literal  version  :  — 


NOTES.  145 

"  Guido,  I  would  that  Lapo,  thon,  and  I 

Might  by  enchantment's  magic  spell  be  ta'en 
And  set  aboard  a  bark,  across  the  main, 
With  every  wind,  as  we  might  choose,  to  hie : 

So  no  mischance,  nor  any  evil  weather 
Might  aught  of  hinderaiice  ever  be  to  us, 
But  living  always  in  one  liking  thus, 
Our  will  should  aye  increase  to  stay  together. 

And  Lady  Joan  and  Lady  Beatris, 
With  her  the  thirtieth  upon  my  roll, 
Might  the  good  wizard  bring  with  us  to  stay ; 

Then  there  would  we  discourse  of  love  alway, 
And  each  of  them  should  be  content  in  soul, 
As  all  of  us  would  surely  be,  I  wis." 

VII. 

A  nd  then  I  devised  this  sonnet.  This  poem  belongs  to  the 
class  of  what  are  called  sonnetti  doppi  —  doubled  sonnets. 
A  sonnet  of  this  kind  is  composed  of  two  sextets  fol- 
lowed by  two  quatrains,  instead  of  being  formed  as  a  regu- 
lar sonnet  of  two  quatrains  followed  by  two  triplets.  The 
lines  of  the  regular  sonnet  are  all  of  five  accented  feet, 
while  in  this  form  of  sonnet,  as  used  by  Dante  and  other  writ- 
ers, the  second  and  fifth  lines  of  each  sextet,  and  the  third 
of  each  quartet,  are  of  but  three  feet.  As  in  the  regular 
sonnet,  there  are  but  four  pairs  of  rhymes,  two  in  the  sextets 
and  two  in  the  quatrains. 

The  next  poem  but  one  is  a  sonnet  of  the  same  sort,  and 
is  the  only  other  instance  of  the  use  of  this  form  by  Dante. 

0  vos  omnes,  etc.  These  words  are  from  Lamentations, 
i.  12, 


140  NOTES. 

VIII. 

Hear  ye  what  honor  Love  to  her  did  pay , 

For  him  in  real  form  I  saw  lament 

Above  the  lovely  image  of  the  dead ; 
And  oft  toward  the  heaven  he  raised  his  head. 

To  read  these  lines  aright  we  must  understand  that  by  Love 
in  real  form  Dante  intends  to  signify  Beatrice  herself,  whom 
he  had  beheld  lamenting  over  the  lovely  damsel  dead.  In 
the  sonnet  in  chapter  xxiv.  he  says  that  Love  said  to  him 
that  this  lady,  — 

"  because 
She  so  resembleth  me,  hath  Love  for  name." 

Who  merits  heaven,  alone 

May  have  the  hope  her  company  to  share. 

Possibly  these  are  the  words  to  which  Dante  refers  when  he 
says  that  in  the  last  part  of  the  words  which  lie  said  of  the 
dead  damsel  he  touched  somewhat  on  the  fact  that  he  had 
seen  her  sometimes  with  his  lady. 

Among  Dante's  minor  poems  is  the  following  sonnet,  the 
closing  phrase  of  which  resembles  these  lines  :  — 

' '  Of  ladies  I  beheld  a  gentle  band, 

This  All  Saints  Day  that  is  but  just  now  gone, 
And  one  of  them,  as  if  the  chief,  came  on, 
Leading  Love  with  her  upon  her  right  hand. 
From  out  her  eyes  there  darted  forth  a  light, 
Which  seemed  to  be  a  spirit  all  on  fire  ; 
And  me  to  look  such  boldness  did  inspire, 
I  saw  upon  her  face  an  angel  bright. 
To  whoso  worthy  was,  gave  salutation 
That  lowly  and  benign  one  with  her  eyes, 
Filling  each  heart  with  noble  emulation. 


NOTES.  147 

This  sovereign  one,  I  think,  from  heaven  did  rise, 
And  came  unto  the  earth  for  our  salvation, 
For  who  is  near  her  hath  of  bliss  the  prize." 

In  this  sonnet  there  is  a  play  upon  the  word  salute,  with 
its  triple  meaning  of  "  health,"  "  salutation  "  and  "  salvation." 
A  similar  use  of  the  word  is  often  to  be  noticed  in  the  New 
Life;  and  thus  in  the  De  Monarchic,,  "Pax  vobis,  Salus 
hominum  salutabat." 

XII. 

Ego  tanquam  centrum  circuit,  cui  simili  modo  se  habent  cir- 
cumferentice  paries  •  tu  autem  non  sic  [I  am  as  the  centre  of 
a  circle,  to  which  the  parts  of  the  circumference  bear  an 
equal  relation  ;  but  thou  art  not  so]. 

The  meaning  of  this  dark  saying  may  be  :  "  I  am  the 
centre  of  a  circle  of  which  all  lovers  form  the  circumference, 
all  equally  dependent  on  and  trusting  in  me  ;  but  thou,  my 
son,  though  a  faithful  lover,  art  not  so  trusted  by  thy  love." 
Love,  therefore,  weeps  for  his  vassal,  whose  fidelity  he 
knows,  and  bids  his  liegeman  call  upon  him  to  give  evidence 
of  his  constancy. 

Take  care  to  adorn  them  with  sweet  harmony.  Whether 
this  direction  refers  simply  to  the  structure  of  the  verse,  or 
to  the  musical  notes  to  which  the  ballad  was  to  be  sung,  is 
not  clear.  It  is  certain  that  these  poetic  compositions  — 
canzoni,  sonnets,  and  ballads  —  were,  as  their  names  imply, 
often,  perhaps  commonly,  intended  to  be  sung. 

In  the  De  Vulgari  Eloquio  (ii.  3),  Dante,  speaking  of  the 
superior  excellence  of  the  canzone  over  all  other  forms  of 
poetry  in  the  vulgar  tongue,  says,  in  words  not  altogether 
plain,  "  Sed  cantiones  per  se  totum  quod  debent,  efficiunt, 


148  NOTES. 

quod  ballata?  non  faciunt  (indigent  enim  plausoribus  ad  quos 
editjE  sunt)  ;  "  which  Trissiuo  translates  as  follows  :  "  Ma  le 
canzoni  fanno  per  se  stesse  tutto  quello  che  denno  ;  il  che 
le  ballate  non  fanno,  perci6  die  hanno  bisogno  di  sonatori, 
ai  quali  sono  fatte  ; "  and  this  translation  may  in  turn  be 
rendered  as  follows  :  "  But  canzoui  are  complete  in  them- 
selves ;  which  ballads  are  not,  for  they  require  musicians  for 
whom  they  are  composed."  But  this  translation  gives  to  the 
word  plausores  a  very  unusual,  if  not  an  unexampled  mean- 
ing ;  and  if  it  be  accepted  as  correct,  the  statement  seems  to 
exclude  canzoni  from  the  list  of  poems  to  be  sung,  which  we 
know  is  incorrect.  As  ballads  were  written  to  be  sung  by 
dancers,  perhaps  the  sense  of  the  words  is  as  follows  :  "  Can- 
zoni are  complete  in  themselves  ;  which  ballads  are  not,  for 
they  require  the  dancers  for  whom  they  are  composed."  If 
this  be  the  right  interpretation,  Dante  may  have  been  led 
into  using  plausor  in  this  equally  unexampled  sense,  from  re- 
calling the  line  (^Eneid,  vi.  644)  :  — 

"  Pars  pedibus  plaudunt  choreas,  et  carmina  dicunt ;  " 
thus  translated  by  Mr.  Conington  :  — 

"  Some  ply  the  dance  with  eager  feet, 
And  chant  responsive  to  its  beat." 

Virgil's  line  is  a  translation  from  the  Odyssey,  viii.  264:  — 
nfTrfoiyov  6e  xopbv  tfaoi'  noalv. 

Through  favor  unto  my  sweet  melody. 

This  and  the  four  following  verses  are  supposed  to  be  ad- 
dressed to  Love  by  the  ballad. 

I  intend  to  solve  .  .  .  this  doubt  .  .  .  in   a   more  difficult 
passage,  —  namely,  in  chapter  xxv. 


NOTES.  149 

XIV. 

They  were  met  together  here  to  attend  a  gentle  lady  who  was 
married  that  day.  It  lias  been  supposed  by  some  commen- 
tators on  this  passage  that  the  marriage  thus  referred  to 
was  that  of  Beatrice  herself  ;  but  this  seems  hardly  proba- 
ble. If  the  beloved  of  Dante  was  —  as  has  been  generally 
supposed,  on  the  untrustworthy  authority  of  Boccaccio  —  the 
daughter  of  Folco  Portinari,  she  was  married  some  time 
before  January,  1287,  for  the  will  of  her  father,  which  is 
dated  on  the  loth  of  that  month,  contains  the  following 
clause  :  Item  :  Domince  Bid  Jilice  suce  et  uxori  Domini  Simonis 
de  Bardis  reliquit  libr.  50  ad  floren,  —  "  Item  :  To  Mistress 
Bice  his  daughter,  wife  of  Master  Simon  de'  Bardi,  he  be- 
queaths fifty  florins."  In  the  spring  of  1290,  Beatrice  died. 
In  1291  Dante  himself  was  married  to  Gemma  dei  Donati. 

I  am,  on  many  grounds,  disposed  to  reject  Boccaccio's 
statement  in  regard  to  Beatrice,  and,  consequently,  to  believe 
that  nothing  is  known  of  her  but  what  Dante  tells. 

It  shows  how  completely  Dante's  inner  life  was  that  of 
the  imagination,  that  there  is  no  reference  in  any  of  his 
works  to  the  marriage  of  Beatrice,  or  to  his  own,  —  and  no 
mention  of  his  wife,  or  of  his  children. 

There  are  stories  that  Dante  was  unhappy  with  his  wife  ; 
but  they  start  with  Boccaccio,  who  was  a  story-telling  gos- 
sip. He  insinuates  more  than  he  asserts  concerning  Dante's 
domestic  infelicity,  and  concludes  a  vague  declamation  about 
the  miseries  of  married  life  with  the  words,  "  Truly,  I  do  not 
affirm  that  these  things  happened  to  Dante,  for  /  do  not 
know."  One  thing  is  known,  however,  which  deserves  re- 
membrance, —  that  when,  after  some  years,  a  daughter  was 
born  to  Dante,  the  name  which  she  received  was  Beatrice. 


150  NOTES. 

The  whole  of  this  passage  of  the  New  Life,  like  many 
others,  is  full  of  the  intense  and  exaggerated  expressions  of 
the  passionate  emotion  of  youth.  As  yet  his  sensibility 
overmasters  the  lover  and  poet,  but  discipline  comes  from 
defeat,  and  out  of  sorrow  comes  strength  ;  each  new  trial 
helping  toward  that  complete  self-possession  which  he  finally 
attained,  and  which  he  displays  in  the  Divine  Comedy. 

I  leaned  against  a  painting  which  ran  around  the  wall  of 
this  house.  Probably  a  pictured  hanging  or  tapestry,  which 
clothed  the  wall. 

XVII. 

Although  ever  afterwards  I  should  abstain  from  addressing 
her.  The  preceding  sonnet  is  the  last  of  the  poems  addressed 
directly  to  Beatrice. 

XIX. 

Ladies  that  have  intelligence  of  Love.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  minor  poems  of  Dante,  and  would  seem  to 
have  been  justly  prized  by  him  ;  for  when  he  meets  with 
Bonagiunta  da  Lucca,  who  had  been  a  writer  of  verses  of 
the  old  style,  he  represents  himself  as  addressed  by  him  :  — 

"But  say,  if  I  see  him  who  drew  forth  the  new  rhymes, 
beginning,  '  Ladies,  that  have  intelligence  of  Love  '  ?  "  —  Pur- 
gatory, xxiv.  48-61. 

And  icho  shall  Kay  in  hell  to  the  foredoomed, 
I  have  beheld  the  hope  of  those  in  bliss. 

The  passage  of  which  these  lines  are  the  close  has  sometimes 
been  interpreted  as  containing  a  hint  of  the  Divine  Comedy. 
But  it  seems  improbable  that  the  conception  of  the  great 


NOTES.  151 

poem  was  formed  in  Dante's  niind  at  the  time  to  which 
this  canzone  is  assigned,  and  hardly  less  improbable  that 
these  lines  were  inserted  in  the  canzone  at  a  later  date, 
when  the  project  of  the  Divine  Comedy  was  complete. 

If  Dante  had  not  written  the  Divine  Comedy,  these  words 
would  awaken  no  suspicion  of  a  double  meaning,  and  the 
simple  interpretation  of  which  they  are  susceptible  would 
then  appear  sufficient.  They  would  be  taken  to  mean 
that  the  youthful  poet,  in  the  exaltation  of  his  passion  and 
the  exaggeration  of  his  humility,  feeling  the  infinite  distance 
between  the  perfection  of  his  beloved  and  his  own  sinful- 
ness,  and  acknowledging  the  separation  that  such  difference 
would  create  between  himself  and  her  in  the  eternal  world, 
set  her,  where  she  belonged,  in  highest  heaven,  but  doomed 
himself  to  hell,  foreseeing  that  even  there  he  should  retain 
the  joy  of  remembering  that  he  had  beheld  the  hope  of  those 
in  bliss. 

— for  ivhen  she  goes  her  way 
Love  casts  a  frost  upon  all  caitiff  hearts. 

This  passage  of  the  canzone  seems  to  have  been  suggested 
by  the  last  verses  of  one  of  the  sonnets  of  Guido  Guinicelli, 
which  begins 

"  I  wish  with  truth  to  sing  my  lady's  praise." 

The  first  verses  of  the  sonnet  are  commonplace,  but  the  clos- 
ing lines,  which  Dante  has  followed  and  improved,  are  sim- 
ple and  beautiful  :  — 

"  She  g'oes  her  way  so  gentle  and  so  fair. 
That  she  by  her  salute  abateth  pride  ; 
By  her  the  faithless  unto  faith  is  brought ; 
Man  who  is  vile  cannot  to  her  come  near  ; 
Still  greater  virtue  doth  with  her  abide, 
That  none  while  he  sees  her  can  have  ill  thought." 


152  NOTES. 

XX. 

Thinking  that  after  such  a  treatise  it  were  beautiful  to  treat 
someivhat  of  Love. 

Dante  calls  his  canzone  a  trattato,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
treated  in  it  of  his  lady  ;  and  after  discourse  of  her,  he 
turned  naturally  to  discourse  of  love. 

Love  is  but  one  thing  with  the  gentle  heart, 
As  in  the  saying  of  the  sage  we  find. 

The  sage  whose  saying  is  thus  referred  to  was  doubtless 
Dante's  poetic  forerunner,  Guido  Guinicelli.  It  was  not  un- 
common to  give  the  title  of  sage  to  a  poet. 

"  Do  thou  protect  me  from  her,  famous  Sage," 
says  Dante   to  Virgil  in  the   first  canto   of  the  Inferno  (v. 
89)  ;  and  so  again  in  the  seventh  canto  (v.  3)  he  says, 

"  And  that  benignant  Sage  who  all  tilings  knew." 
Guido  Guinicelli  begins  one  of  his  canzoni  thus  :  — 

"  Unto  the  gentle  heart  Love  aye  repairs 

As  doth  a  bird  unto  the  greenwood's  shade  ; 
Love  was  not,  truly,  ere  the  gentle  heart, 
Nor  gentle  heart  ere  love,  by  nature  made." 

The  question  what  is  Love  —  quid  sit  A  mor  —  was  one 
which  much  occupied  the  Florentine  poets  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  Guido  Cavalcanti  wrote  a  famous  and  obscure 
canzone  on  the  theme,  and  all  the  host  of  lesser  rhymesters 
employed  their  ingenuity,  rather  than  their  imagination,  in 
trying  to  define  the  subtile  essence  of  that  which  is  in  its 
nature  incapable  of  precise  definition. 

This  reference  to  Guido  Guinicelli  in  Dante's  youthful  son- 
net is  of  the  more  interest  from  the  fact  that  in  his  mature 


NOTES.  153 

years,  when  he  meets  Guitlo  Guinicelli  in  Purgatory,  he 
speaks  of  him  as  "  father  of  me  and  of  my  betters,  who  ever 
used  sweet  and  gracious  rhymes  of  love."  And  when  Guido 
says,  "Tell  me  what  is  the  cause  why  in  speech  and  look 
thou  showest  that  thon  dost  hold  me  dear  ? "  he  replies, 
"  The  sweet  verses  of  yours,  which,  so  long  as  the  modern 
fashion  shall  endure,  will  still  make  dear  their  ink."  (Pur- 
ga'ory,  xxvi.  91-114.) 

Guinicelli  is  said  to  have  died  in  1276,  wheii  Dante  was 
eleven  years  old. 

XXII. 

He  who  had  been  the  begetter  of  such  a  marvel  as  this  most 
noble  Beatrice  was  seen  to  be,  departing  from  this  life. 

Folco  Portinari,  the  father  of  that  Beatrice  who  is  gener- 
ally assumed  to  have  been  the  beloved  of  Dante,  died  on  the 
31st  of  December,  1289.  He  was  a  man  of  repute  and 
wealth,  and  his  name  is  still  honored  in  Florence  as  that  of 
the  founder  of  the  hospital  of  Santa  Maria  Xuova. 

XXIII. 

These  angels  sang  gloriously,  and  the  words  of  their  song  it 
seemed  to  me  were  these :  "  Osanna  in  excelsis  !  " 

In  the  Divine  Corned)/,  Dante  frequently  speaks  of  angels 
and  of  the  spirits  of  the  blessed  singing  Ilosanna. 

XXIV. 

The  lady  of  .  .  .  my  frst  friend.  The  name  of  the  lady 
of  Guido  Cavalcanti  was  Giovauna,  or  Joan  ;  but  because  of 
her  beauty  the  name  of  Primavera,  that  is,  "Spring,"  had 
been  given  to  her  ;  and  as  the  freshness  of  spring  precedes 


154  NOTES. 

the  full  glory  of  summer,  so  Joan  was  the  forerunner  of 
Beatrice,  even  as  John  had  been  the  forerunner  of  the  Light 
of  the  World. 

Ego  vox  clamantis  in  descrto :  Parate  viam  Domini.  —  Mat- 
thew, iii.  3. 

XXV. 

According  to  the  philosopher.     That  is,  Aristotle. 

For  to  write  in  rhyme  in  the  vulgar  is,  after  a  manner,  the 
same  thing  as  to  write  in  verse  in  Latin,  —  so  that  the  writers 
in  rhyme  no  less  deserve  the  name  of  poets. 

In  the  tongue  of  the  oco,  and  in  the  tongue  of  the  si.  That  is, 
in  the  languages  of  Provence,  or  Languedoc,  and  of  Tus- 
cany. In  his  treatise  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  Dante,  speaking 
of  the  varieties  of  language  in  Europe,  says  :  "  From  one 
and  the  same  idiom  sprang  divers  vulgar  tongues  ;  for  all  that 
tract  which  extends  from  the  mouth  of  the  Danube,  or  Lake 
Msjeotis,  to  the  borders  of  the  West  which  are  defined  by 
the  boundaries  of  England,  Italy,  and  France,  and  by  the 
ocean,  was  occupied  by  one  sole  idiom,  though  afterwards  it 
was  diverted  into  different  vulgar  tongues  by  the  Slavonians, 
Hungarians,  Germans,  Saxons,  English,  and  other  nations  as 
many  as  there  were  ;  this  alone  remaining  in  almost  all  as  a 
sign  of  common  origin,  that  nearly  all  of  them  use  Jo  [Ya] 
in  affirmation.  Beginning  from  this  idiom,  namely,  from  the 
limits  of  the  Hungarians  on  the  East,  another  idiom  occu- 
pied the  whole  of  what  is  called  Europe  on  that  side,  and 
even  stretched  beyond.  But  all  that  remains  of  Europe  out- 
side of  these  two  was  occupied  by  a  third  idiom,  which  yet 
may  seem  to  be  threefold.  For  some  say  in  affirmation  Oc, 


NOTES.  155 

others  Oil,  others  S},  namely,  the  Spaniards,  the  French, 
and  the  Italians.  .  .  .  Those  that  use  Oc  occupy  the  west- 
ern part  of  Southern  Europe,  beginning  from  the  confines 
of  Genoa.  Those  that  say  Si  occupy  the  region  east  of 
these  limits,  namely,  as  far  as  that  promontory  of  Italy 
from  which  the  gulf  of  the  Adriatic  Sea  begins,  and  Sicily. 
But  those  that  use  Oil  are  somewhat  to  the  north  of  these, 
for  on  the  east  and  north  they  have  the  Germans,  on  the 
west  they  are  walled  in  by  the  English  Sea,  and  bounded 
by  the  mountains  of  Aragon,  and  on  the  south  also  they 
are  shut  in  by  the  Provencals  and  by  the  curve  of  the 
Apennines."  (Lib.  i.  c.  8.) 

In  the  thirty-third  canto  of  the  Inferno  the  poet  defines 

Italy  as 

"  That  fair  land  wherein  the  si  doth  sound." 

Some  illiterate  persons  acquired  the  fame  of  skill  in  writing 
verse,  —  that  is,  of  being  poets. 

JEole,  namque  tibi,  etc.  —  ^Eneid,  i.  65. 
Tuus,  0  regina,  quid  optes,  etc.  —  Id.,  76. 

Dardanidce  duri,  etc.  —  Id.,  iii.  94.     This  was  the  voice  of 
an  oracle. 

Multum,  Roma,  tamen  debes  civilibus  armis . —  Pharsalia,  i.  44. 

Die  mihi,  Musa,  virum,  etc.  —  De  Arte  Poetica,  141.     This 
is  Horace's  translation  of  the  opening  lines  of  the  Odyssey. 

Bella  mihi,  video,  bella  parantur,  ail.  —  Remedium  Amoris, 
v.  2. 


156  NOTES. 

And  my  first  friend  and  I  are  well  acquainted  with  those  who 
rhyme  thus  foolishly.  The  digression  which  thus  concludes 
with  a  reference  to  Guido  Cavalcanti  that  shows  the  sympa- 
thy existing  between  him  and  Dante,  is  an  illustration  of 
the  infancy  of  the  new  literature  and  the  poverty  of  intel- 
lectual culture  at  the  time  when  the  Vita  Nuova  was  writ- 
ten. It  shows  how  little  familiarity  those  into  whose  hauds 
the  book  was  likely  to  fall  were  expected  to  possess  with 
the  common  forms  of  poetry,  and  the  methods  of  poetic 
expression.  It  indicates  also  something  of  the  range  of 
Dante's  reading.  Virgil  was  already  his  master  and  poet, 
and  the  four  other  poets  to  whom  in  this  digression  he  refers 
reappear  in  company  in  the  Divine  Comedy  :  — 

"  In  the  mean  time  a  voice  was  heard  by  me  : 
'  All  honor  be  to  the  pre-eminent  poet, 
His  shade  returns  again  that  was  departed.' 

After  the  voice  had  ceased  and  quiet  was, 
Four  mighty  shades  I  saw  approaching  us ; 
Semblance  had  they  nor  sorrowful  nor  glad. 

To  say  to  me  began  my  gracious  Master  : 
'  Him  with  that  falchion  in  his  hand  behold, 
Who  conies  before  the  three,  even  as  their  lord. 

That  one  is  Homer,  poet  sovereign  ; 

He  who  comes  next  is  Horace,  the  satirist ; 
The  third  is  Ovid,  and  the  last  is  Lucaii.'  " 

Hell,  iv.  79-90. 

The  contrast  between  such  powerfully  imaginative  poetry 
as  the  magnificent  and  living  scene  of  which  these  verses 
form  part,  and  a  passage  like  this  literal  statement  in  the 
Vita  Nuova  concerning  poetic  usage  and  diction,  affords  a 
measure  of  the  growth  of  Dante's  knowledge  and  imagina- 
tion from  boyhood  to  manhood,  as  well  as  of  the  correspond- 
ing growth  in  the  literary  sense  of  the  public  of  Italian 


NOTES.  157 

readers.  The  air  of  Florence  was  genial  to  art  and  to  letters 
during  this  period,  and  they  occupied  a  degree  of  attention 
and  interest  rarely  anywhere  accorded  to  them.  Dante  was 
himself  in  large  measure  the  source  of  the  pervading  spirit 
to  which  he  gave  the  fullest  expression,  and  of  which  he  felt 
the  reflex  influence  acting  to  quicken  and  confirm  his  indi- 
vidual genius.  He  was  not  only  poet,  but,  as  this  passage 
shows,  critic  also  ;  and,  indeed,  this  passage  is  the  first  essay 
of  modern  criticism.  In  him  the  poetic  and  critical  faculties 
were  so  balanced  and  proportioned,  that  each,  as  it  devel- 
oped, promoted  the  full  and  just  play  of  the  other. 

The  direct  literary  impulse  which  Dante  gave  was  at  once 
very  great,  and  was  soon  to  become  unparalleled.  But  his 
commentators  in  the  century  after  his  death  often  seem  to 
have  caught  the  formal  literalism  of  this  youthful  passage 
on  poetic  diction,  and  to  have  joined  with  it  a  fantastic  pedan- 
try, in  their  discourse  upon  the  most  poetic  of  poems.  Even 
Boccaccio  displays  thus  the  literary  juvenility  of  his  time. 

As  this  passage  stands  in  the  New  Life  it  is  in  marked 
contrast  with  the  pages  which  immediately  follow,  pages  as 
tender,  sweet,  and  simple  as  were  ever  written. 

XXVI. 

This  portion  of  the  New  Life  belongs  to  the  year  1280, 
and  the  contrast  between  the  tender  sweetness  and  serenity 
of  these  poems,  and  the  character  of  the  events  of  the  pe- 
riod at  which  they  were  written,  is  complete.  It  was  in  this 
year  that  Count  Ugolino  and  his  sons  and  grandsons  were 
starved  by  the  Pisans  in  their  tower  prison.  A  few  months 
later  in  the  same  year,  Francesca  da  Rimini  was  murdered 
by  her  husband.  Between  the  dates  of  these  two  cruel 
deeds  the  Florentines  had  won  the  victory  of  Campaldino 


158  NOTES. 

over  their  Ghibelline  enemies  ;  and  thus,  in  this  short  space, 
the  materials  had  been  given  to  the  poet  for  the  two  best 
known  and  most  powerful  narratives  and  for  one  of  the  most 
striking  episodes  of  the  Divina  Commedia. 

In  the  great  and  hard-fought  battle  of  Campaldino,  Dante 
himself  took  part.  "  I  was  at  first  greatly  afraid,"  he  says, 
in  a  letter  of  which  a  few  sentences  have  been  preserved 
in  Lionardo  Aretino's  life  of  the  poet,  —  "  but  at  the  end  I 
felt  the  greatest  joy,  —  according  to  the  various  chances  of 
the  battle."  When  the  victorious  army  returned  to  Flor- 
ence, a  splendid  procession,  with  the  clergy  at  its  head,  with 
the  arts  of  the  city  each  under  its  banner,  and  with  all  man- 
ner of  pomp,  went  out  to  meet  it.  There  were  long-contin- 
ued feasts  and  rejoicings.  The  battle  had  been  fought  on 
the  11  tli  of  June,  the  day  of  St.  Barnabas,  and  the  Republic, 
though  already  engaged  in  magnificent  works  of  church- 
building,  decreed  that  a  new  church  should  be  erected  in 
honor  of  the  Saint  on  whose  day  the  victory  had  been  won. 

A  little  later  in  that  summer,  Dante  was  one  of  a  troop  of 
Florentines  who  joined  the  forces  of  Lucca  in  levying  war 
upon  the  Pisan  territory.  The  stronghold  of  Caprona  was 
taken,  and  Dante  was  present  at  its  capture  ;  for  he  says, 
"  I  saw  the  foot-soldiers,  who,  having  made  terms,  came  out 
from  Caprona,  afraid  when  they  beheld  themselves  among 
so  many  enemies."  (Hell,  xxi.  94-96.) 

Thus,  during  a  great  part  of  the  summer  of  1289,  Dante 
was  in  active  service  as  a  soldier.  He  was  no  lovesick  idler, 
but  was  already  taking  his  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  state 
which  he  was  afterwards  to  be  called  on  for  a  time  to  assist 
in  governing,  and  he  was  laying  up  those  stores  of  experi- 
ence which  were  to  serve  as  the  material  out  of  which  his 
vivifying  imagination  was  to  form  the  great  national  poem 
of  Italy.  But  of  this  active  life,  of  these  personal  engage- 


NOTES.  159 

ments,  of  these  terrible  events  which  took  such  strong  pos- 
session of  his  soul,  there  is  no  word,  no  suggestion  even,  in 
the  book  of  his  new  life.  In  it  there  is  no  echo,  however 
faint,  of  those  storms  of  public  violence  and  private  passion 
which  broke  dark  over  Italy.  The  story  of  the  New  Life  is 
a  narrative  of  absorbing  personal  emotions,  told  as  if  the 
world  were  the  abode  of  tenderness  and  peace.  Every  man 
in  some  sort  leads  a  double  life,  —  one  real  and  his  own,  the 
other  seeming  and  the  world's,  but  with  few  is  the  separa- 
tion so  entire  as  it  was  with  Dante. 

XXIX. 

Quomodo  sedet  sola  civitas,  etc.  —  Lamentations,  i.  1.  With 
the  same  verse  from  Lamentations  Dante  began  the  letter 
which  he  addressed  to  the  Italian  Cardinals  in  1314,  on  oc- 
casion of  the  election  of  a  papal  successor  to  Clement  V., 
lamenting  the  desertion  of  Rome  by  the  head  of  the  Church, 
upbraiding  the  prelates  by  whom  the  interests  of  the  fold  of 
Christ  were  abandoned,  and  exhorting  the  Italian  Cardinals 
to  stand  firm  for  the  good  of  the  Church  and  of  Italy. 

It  is  no  part  of  the  present  design,  if  we  consider  the  proem 
which  precedes  this  little  book.  The  words  which  it  was  his  in- 
tention to  copy  into  this  little  book  were  those  only  which 
related  to  his  own  new  life. 

In  so  doing,  it  would  be  needful  for  me  to  praise  myself. 
What  circumstance  or  action  Dante  may  refer  to  in  these 
words  is  wholly  unknown. 

The  number  nine.  The  importance  which  Dante  attributes 
to  the  relation  of  the  number  nine  to  Beatrice  is  no  indica- 


160  NOTES. 

tion  of  puerility  of  intelligence  or  poverty  of  feeling,  but 
gives  evidence  of  the  sensitiveness  of  his  imagination  to  the 
impressions  of  a  popular  superstition,  which  rested  on  a  basis 
of  natural  but  unexplained  fact.  The  exalted  explanations 
which  his  fancy  invented  to  account  for  the  friendliness  of 
this  celestial  number  to  Beatrice,  were  the  simple  expression 
of  a  condition  of  impassioned  sentiment  in  which  the  sugges- 
tions of  fancy  seem  more  true  than  the  literal  witness  of  fact. 

The  mysterious  and  mystical  properties  and  relations  of 
numbers  were  in  Dante's  time  a  subject  of  serious  study, 
and  held  to  mathematics  proper  something  the  same  rela- 
tion as  alchemy  held  towards  chemistry. 

Cornelius  Agrippa,  in  his  book  on  Occult  Philosophy,  says 
on  this  subject  :  "  Themistius  truly,  and  Boethius,  and 
Averroes  the  Arabian,  together  with  Plato,  so  exalt  numbers, 
that  they  deem  no  one  able  without  them  to  philosophize 
rightly.  They  speak,  indeed,  of  rational  and  formal  num- 
ber, not  of  the  material,  sensible,  or  spoken  number  used  by 
traders.  .  .  .  But  they  direct  their  attention  to  the  propor- 
tion resulting  from  the  latter,  which  they  call  natural,  for- 
mal, and  rational  number,  and  from  which  great  mysteries 
(sacramenta}  proceed,  alike  in  natural  and  in  divine  and 
celestial  affairs.  .  .  .  That  great  efficacy  and  power,  for 
good  and  for  bad,  lies  hid  in  numbers,  not  only  the  most  illus- 
trious philosophers  unanimously  teach,  but  also  the  Catho- 
lic Doctors."  (De  Occulta  Philosophia,  lib.  ii.  cc.  2,  3.) 

Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Garden  of  Cyrus  is  a  good  compar- 
atively modern  instance  of  the  speculations  of  a  fanciful  and 
contemplative  mind  concerning  the  mysteries  and  secrets  of 
number.  The  number  five  is  the  one  whose  properties  he 
sets  forth. 


NOTES.  1G1 

XXX. 

The  perfect  number.  According  to  Pythagorus,  ten  was 
the  perfect  number,  and  this  was  the  common  opinion  of  the 
schoolmen. 

It  appears,  then,  that  Beatrice  died  on  the  9th  of  June, 
1290.  She  was  a  little  more  than  twenty-four  years  old. 

Since,  according  to  Ptolemy  and  according  to  the  Christian 
truth,  there  are  nine  heavens  which  move.  By  the  Christian 
truth  Dante  means,  not  a  dogma  of  religion,  but  an  opinion 
or  doctrine  maintained  by  one  or  more  of  those  teachers 
whom  the  Church  generally  regarded  as  authorities.  In  the 
Convito,  ii.  3,  he  says:  "I  say  then  that  there  are  many 
diverse  opinions  concerning  the  number  and  site  of  the  hea- 
vens, although  the  truth  has  at  last  been  found.  .  .  .  Ac- 
cording to  him  (Ptolemy),  and  according  to  what  is  estab- 
lished in  Astronomy  and  Philosophy,  the  movable  heavens 


Since  three  is  the  factor  by  itself  of  nine,  and  the  Author  of 
miracles  by  himself  is  three.  In  the  Italian  the  same  word, 
fattore,  serves  both  for  "  factor  "  and  "author."  The  play 
on  the  word  is  characteristic. 

XXXII. 

Xo  quality  of  cold  't  teas  took  her  there, 
Xor  yt-t  of  heat. 

Disease   and  death  were   supposed  to  result  from  excess  of 
the  principle  of  cold  or  of  heat  in  the  system. 


162  NOTES. 

Nor  is  there  wit  so  high  of  villain  heart 
That  aught  concerning  her  it  can  conceive ; 
Therefore  to  it  comes  not  the  wish  to  weep. 

It  is  only  the  evil-disposed  who  do  not  weep  for  her,  and 
they  weep  not,  because  they  are  powerless  to  conceive 
aught  of  her. 

XXXIII. 

There  came  to  me  one  who  .  .  .  was  my  friend  next  in  or- 
der after  the  first  •  and  he  was  so  near  in  blood  to  this  lady  in 
ylory  that  there  was  none  nearer.  This  friend  of  the  poet 
would  seem  from  these  words  to  have  been  the  brother  of 
Beatrice. 

Among  the  sonnets  ascribed  to  Dante  is  one  which,  if  it  be 
his,  must  have  been  written  about  this  time,  and  which, 
although  not  included  in  the  New  Life,  is  perhaps  not  un- 
worthy to  find  a  place  here.  Its  imagery,  at  least,  connects 
it  with  some  of  the  sonnets  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the 
book. 

"  One  day  came  Melancholy  unto  me, 

And  said,  '  With  thee  I  will  awhile  abide ; ' 
And,  as  it  seemed,  attending  at  her  side, 
Anger  and  Grief  did  bear  her  company. 
'  Depart !    Away  !  '  I  cried  out  eagerly. 
Then  like  a  Greek  she  unto  me  replied  ; 
And  while  she  stood  discoursing  in  full  tide, 
I  looked,  and  Love  approaching  us  I  see. 
In  cloth  of  black  full  strangely  was  he  clad  ; 
A  little  hood  he  wore  upon  his  head, 
And  down  his  face  tears  flowing  fast  he  had. 
'  Poor  little  wretch  !   what  aileth  thee  ?  '  I  said. 
And  he  replied,  '  I  woful  am,  and  sad, 
Sweet  brother,  for  our  lady  who  is  dead.'  " 


NOTES.  163 

XXXV. 

/  was  drawing  an  angel  upon  certain  tablets.  This  is  an  in- 
teresting illustration  of  the  personal  tastes  of  Dante,  and  of 
his  pursuits.  "  Dante  was  an  excellent  draughtsman,"  says 
Lionardo  Aretino.  In  1291  Giotto,  who  as  an  artist  deserves 
to  rank  side  by  side  with  Dante  as  a  poet,  was,  if  we  may  be- 
lieve tradition,  but  fifteen  years  old.  The  friendship  which 
existed  between  him  and  Dante  had  its  beginning  at  a  later 
period.  At  this  time  Cimabue  still  held  the  field.  This 
great  artist  often  painted  angels  around  the  figures  of  the 
Virgin  and  her  Child  ;  and  in  his  most  famous  picture,  in 
the  church  of  Santa  Maria  Xovella,  there  are  certain  angels 
of  which  Vasari  says,  with  truth,  that,  though  painted  in  the 
Greek  manner,  they  show  an  approach  toward  the  modern 
style  of  drawing.  These  angels  may  well  have  seemed 
beautiful  to  eyes  accustomed  to  the  hard  unnaturalness  of 
earlier  works.  The  love  of  art  pervaded  Florence,  and  a 
nature  so  sensitive  and  so  sympathetic  as  Dante's  could  not 
but  partake  of  it  in  the  fullest  measure.  Art  was  then  no 
adjunct  of  sentimeutalism,  no  encourager  of  idleness.  It 
was  connected  with  all  that  was  most  serious  and  delightful 
in  life.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  appreciate  the  earnestness 
with  which  painting,  the  latest  of  the  arts  to  feel  the  breath 
of  the  revival,  was  followed,  or  to  realize  the  delight  which 
it  gave,  when  it  seemed,  as  by  a  miracle,  to  fling  off  the 
winding-sheet  that  had  long  wrapped  its  -stiffened  limbs,  and 
to  come  forth  with  new  and  unexampled  life. 

This  angel  drawn  by  Dante  brings  to  mind  the  sculptured 
Angel  which  the  poet  saw  in  Purgatory. 

"  The  Angel,  who  came  down  to  earth  with  tidings 
Of  peace,  that  had  been  wept  for  many  a  year, 
And  opened  Heaven  from  its  long  interdict, 


164  NOTES. 

In  front  of  us  appeared  so  truthfully 
There  sculptured  in  a  gracious  attitude, 
He  did  not  seem  an  image  that  is  silent." 

Purgatory,  x.  34-39. 

To  that  calm  heaven  where  Mary  hath  her  home. 
The  original  is, 

Nel  del  delV  umiltate  ov'  e  Maria. 

The  words  umilta,  umile,  umiliare,  seem  to  be  sometimes  used 
by  Dante  in  a  sense  which  implies  mildness,  peace,  tranquil- 
lity. In  the  Convito  (iii.  15)  he  interprets  the  verse  Quest'  e 
colei  ch'  umilia  ogni  perverso,  "  This  is  she  who  makes  every 
perverse  one  humble,"  by  the  words,  volge  dolcemente  chi 
fuori  del  debito  ordine  e  piegalo,  "  mildly  turns  whoso  has 
taken  a  wrong  course." 

The  words  umile,  umilta,  frequently  recur  in  the  New 
Life,  and  with  other  similar  words,  such  as  gentile,  pace, 
amore,  morte,  serve  as  the  key  note  of  its  harmony. 

That  tranquil  heaven  where  Mary  dwells  is  the  Empyrean, 
quieted  by  fulness  of  Love.  Dante  (Convito,  ii.  15)  says  : 
"The  Empyrean  Heaven  by  its  peace  resembles  the  Divine 
Science,  which  is  full  of  all  peace  ;  and  which  suffers  no 
strife  of  opinions  or  sophistical  arguments,  because  of  the 
exceeding  certitude  of  its  subject,  which  is  God." 

XXXIX. 

And  that  it  is  fitting  to  call  the  appetite  the  heart,  and  the 
reason  the  soul,  is  sufficiently  plain  to  those  to  whom  it  pleases 
me  that  this  should  be  disclosed.  In  the  Convito  (iv.  22) 
Dante  says  :  "  No  one  should  say  that  every  appetite  is  of 
the  soul,  for  here  by  the  soul  is  meant  only  that  which  be- 
longs to  the  rational  part,  namely,  the  will  and  the  intellect  ; 


NOTES.  105 

so  that,  if  one  should  choose  to  call  the  appetite  of  the  senses 
the  soul,  he  can  have  here  no  place  nor  room  ;  for  let  no  one 
doubt  that  the  rational  appetite  is  more  noble  than  the  sen- 
sual, and  therefore  more  to  be  loved,  and  it  is  this  of  which 
we  now  speak." 

XL. 

There  arose  one  day,  about  the  hour  of  nones.  Here  again 
Dante's  fancy  recurs  to  the  number  nine.  The  nones  are  the 
canonical  offices  of  the  ninth  hour  of  the  day. 

In  those  crimson  garments  in  tgkich  she  had  first  appeared 
to  my  eyes.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Dante  says  (ch.  ii.) 
that  when  he  first  saw  Beatrice  she  was  "  clothed  in  a  most 
noble  color,  a  modest  and  becoming  crimson." 

XLI. 

The  blessed  image  which  Jesus  Christ  left  to  us  as  the  like- 
ness of  his  most  beautiful  countenance.  The  most  precious 
relic  at  Rome,  and  the  one  which  chiefly  attracted  pilgrims, 
during  a  long  period  of  the  Middle  Ages,  was  the  Veronica, 
or  representation  of  the  Saviour's  face,  supposed  to  have 
been  miraculously  impressed  upon  the  kerchief  with  which  he 
wiped  his  face  on  his  way  to  Calvary.  It  is  still  preserved 
at  St.  Peter's,  and  shown  each  year  on  special  occasions.  It 
is  referred  to  in  the  Paradise  (xxxi.  103-108^,:  — 

"  As  he  who  peradventure  from  Croatia 
Cometh  to  gaze  at  our  Veronica, 
Who  through  its  ancient  fame  is  never  sated, 
But  says  in  thought,  the  while  it  is  displayed, 
'  My  Lord,  Christ  Jesus,  God  of  very  God, 
Now  was  your  semblance  made  like  uuto  this  ';' '  ' 


166  NOTES. 

For  an  account  of  the  Veronica  see  Mr.  Longfellow's  note 
on  this  passage. 

Those  who  go  to  the  house  of  Galicia  are  called  pilgrims,  be- 
cause the  burial-place  of  St.  James  icas  more  distant  from  his 
country  than  that  of  any  other  of  the  Apostles. 

Pilgrim,  from  peregrinus,  "  a  foreigner,"  or  "  stranger." 
The  shrine  of  St.  James,  at  Compostella  (contracted  from 
Giacomo  Apostolo),  in  Galicia,  was  a  great  resort  of  pil- 
grims during  the  Middle  Ages,  and  Santiago,  the  military 
patron  of  Spain,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  saints  of  Chris- 
tendom. The  reader  of  ^he  Paradise  will  remember  the 
lines  (xxv.  16-18)  :  — 

"  And  then  my  Lady,  full  of  ecstasy, 

Said  unto  me  :   '  Look,  look  !  behold  the  Baron 
For  whom  below  Galicia  is  frequented.  '  ' 

See  Mr.  Longfellow's  note  on  this  passage. 
Chaucer  says,  the  Wif  of  Bathe 

"  had  passed  many  a  straunge  streem  ; 
At  Rome  sche  hadde  ben,  and  at  Boloyne, 
In  Galice  at  Seynt  Jame,  and  at  Coloyne." 

And  Shakespeare,  in  A II  's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  makes  Hel- 
ena present  herself  as  "  St.  Jacque's  pilgrim." 

XLII. 

By  another  which  begins  "  To  hearken  now."  This  was  the 
sonnet  written  for  his  friend  who  was  near  of  kin  to  his  lady 
in  glory  ;  see  ch.  xxxiii. 

And  this  the  Philosopher  says  in  the  second  book  of  his 
Metaphysics.  The  words  of  Aristotle  here  referred  to  are 


NOTES.  1G7 

probably  the  following  :  "  As  the  eyes  of  bats  to  the  day- 
light, so  is  our  understanding  to  the  clearest  things  in  na- 
ture." {Metaphysics,  ii.  1.) 

Dante  refers  to  this  passage  again  in  the  Convito  (ii.  5). 

Beyond  the  sphere  that  widest  orbit  hath 

Passeth  the  sigh  which  issues  from  my  heart. 

That  is,  to  the  motionless  Empyrean. 

lie  sees  her  such  that  his  reporting  words 
To  me  are  dark. 

When  Dante  is  himself  uplifted  to  the  Empyrean,  his  vision 
is  at  first  dim  with  excess  of  light,  and  he  comprehends  not 
what  he  beholds  :  — 

"Xot  that  these  things  are  difficult  in  themselves, 
But  the  deficiency  is  on  thy  side. 
For  yet  them  hast  not  vision  so  exalted." 

Paradise,  xxx.  79-bl. 


XLIII. 

And  then  may  it  please  Him  u-ho  is  the  Lord  of  Grace,  that 
my  soul  may  go  to  behold  the  glory  of  its  lady,  namely,  of  that 
blessed  Beatrice,  who  in  glory  looks  upon  the  face  of  Him  qui 
est  per  omnia  specula  benedictus  [who  is  blessed  forever]. 

The  New  Life  fitly  closes  with  words  of  that  life  in  which 
all  things  shall  be  made  new,  "  and  there  shall  be  no  more 
death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying,  nor  shall  there  be  any 
more  pain  ;  for  the  former  things  are  passed  away." 

The  Dirine  Comedy  was  finished  not  long  before  Dante's 
death  in  1321,  thirty-one  years  after  the  death  of  Beatrice. 

Dante  ended  the  letter  which  he  addressed  to  Can  Grande 


168  NOTES. 

della  Scala,  in  sending  him  the  Paradise,  with  the  following 
words  which  recall  and  repeat  the  ending  of  the  New  Life  :  — 
"  And  because  the  beginning  and  source  being  found, 
namely,  God,  there  is  nothing  further  to  be  sought,  —  since 
he  is  the  Alpha  and  Omega,  that  is,  the  beginning  and  the 
end,  —  this  treatise  terminates  in  God,  qui  est  benedictus  in 
scecula  sceculorum." 


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